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I UNITED STATES OF AMRRICA.J 



IDo-feyi^t^/U .,r=^'S^<c. 



Just Published, 

A now Book, uniform with this Yolume, and 
lUuRtrated, entitled 



Nonsense, 



"BRICK" POMIKROY. 

*j(.* These books are sold everywhere^ and will be sent by mail, 
POSTAGE FREE, on receipt of price, $1.50, 



G. 1¥. Carleton & Co., Publisl&ers, 
New York. 



-3«'^^' 



SENSE, 



OR 



Satnrilay-iiiglit Mnsings anl ThoniMM Paiiers. 



"yyu^tcA^^yndiic^ BY 

"BKICK" POMEROY 

(Editor of the La Orosse, Wis., Democrat.) 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. U. HOWARD. 



^. 




,-- ' NEW YOEK : 
G. W, Carle ton & Co., Ptib lis hers, 
LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. 



MDCCCLXVIII. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1868, by 

G. W. CARLETON & CO., 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 

Southern District of New York. 



The New York Printing Company, 
81, 83, and 85 Centre Street y 
New York. 



tBcbitatioxu 

To men who have souls — 

To young men of ambition — 

To those who have hearts — 

To all who would be better and happier — 

To my earnest friends everywhere — 

THIS, MY FIRST VOLUME, 

|s most respettf«Ug bebkateb bg t^z §ittl|(rr, 

M. M. POMEROY. 



I 



La Crossb, Wis., 186T. 



CONTENTS 



OHAPTEE PAGB 

I.— A Few Remarks about the Eoad of Life 9 

IL— The Magic Artist 19 

III.— In which People are Spoken to Sensibly 82 

IV.— In which Little Boys and Big Boys are Told to Think 88 

V. — A Letter from Home '. 45 

VI. — We Reason Together on Success 61 

VII.— Saturday Night 53 

VIII. — In which Easy Lessons are Given Out 68 

IX.— The Evening Star 70 

X.— In which Disappointment is Favorably Mentioned 77 

XI. — "Wherein Common-Sense is Entitative 85 

XII. — In which we Speak about Pluck 91 

XIII.— Knitting 97 

XIV.— We Walk in the Cold, and Pity where Others Condemn . . 103 

XV. — Wh«rein the Use of Eyes is Looked Over 110 

XVI.— In which we Find Smiles among Tears 119 

XVII.— A Short Talk about how to Get Along 126 

XVIIL— Fireside Musings 182 

XIX.— In which we Speak of the Roads, the Hearth and Fender 138 

XX.— Sunday Night 147 

XXI. — In which we Travel on Dangerous Ground 150 

XXII.— About Twigs and their Early Bending 159 

XXIII.— In which a Hard Word is Used 168 

XXIV.— Musings at the End of the Week 173 

XXV.— In which Post-Mortem Processions are Spoken of 178 

XXVI.-Pictures 185 

XXVII.— We Wonder why Wonders will never Cease ! 192 

XXVIII.— Wherein the Use of Money is Spoken of 198 

XXIX.— For Married Men, and their Wives 205 

XXX. — Boys and Apprentices are Spoken of and to 212 

XXXI.— My Boy is Counselled to Mind his own Business 219 

XXXII.— We Speak of Something that Concerns Somebody 225 

XXXIII.— We Converse on how Men may Succeed 232 

XXXIV.— We Talk of Things we ought not to Talk of 233 

XXXV.— We find Where to Look for Happiness 248 

XXXVI.— Another Week Gone 249 

XXXVII.— Happy New Year 257 

XXXVIIL-Saturday Night 267 



PREFACE. 



I DO not understand it ! 

Who of us does ? 

Do you ? 

There is something so much beyond human reasoning in this life, 
that one hardly dares to stop thinking long enough to think I It 
is so terrible to be lost I And there is so much, and yet so little, 
that who of us has the courage to step, even in thought, beyond 
the present. So many have gone before, yet they tell us nothing, 
and we play like children waiting the boll I 

It seems as though we could make the path to the school-room 
door an easier one to walk in if we would. If we but took half the 
pains to shun the brambles and ugly points we take to run upon 
them, how easy would be the road f And thus it is that we at 
night loosen the curtains, tone the light, draw the easy-chair to 
hearth and fender, forget the world, and run the pen, line upon 
line, doing to others as wo would have thena do by us. 

Who cares for any of us ? 

No one I 

Do we care for ourselves ? 

Nol 

And yet we do. We all look for the pearls of time, half dark, 
half light, as Hk sends them to us for such purpose as we will — 
days we save or lose. Let us not condemn the day till we have 
seen its sunset — let those who read these pages not condemn 
till the pages have all been turned. Life is but acts. Books 
are but leaves. All in all, and thus the summing. 

Looking backward, we see a winding path, reaching back into 
a narrow labyrinth of uncertainty — now opening wider and wider 
into a plain of beauty and hours of happiness as we journey on 
the Road to Life, never fearing the reward, never holding back a 
step, lest it be the one that marks our mile-stone ! We see in 



8 Preface. 

the path behind us a poor boy alone, struggh'ng with fate, trials, 
poverty, and life's temptations, with no one to aid him kindly. 
To be sure, hands were outreached ; but they often were cold, 
and the words spoken lacked earnest meaning. 

"We have often hungered for some one who knew the road to 
walk with us, and teach us how to give vigor to step, and some- 
thing more than a tiresome aim to life. We have often wished 
for some one to do by us as we will do by them ; so we sit quiet- 
ly by the table, and with never a thought of wrong, but a heart 
full of love to all — be they the boys like Valter, our young 
companion, who listens as we talk of life — men like ourself, who 
may, and may not, think of thoughts which run from brain to 
pen-point as we write, or those of either sex whose dark hours, 
whose sad hours — whose longing hours have been many, yet 
whose days have been bright, and would have been more so if 
those who make the world had done by them as we would have 
done by them. 

So do not throw this little volume down lightly. 

It will do you no harm. 

It assumes no dictation. 

It is not a refrigerator to congeal and keep within you the 
legacy of sin we inherited. 

It is simply the honest, home-like talk of a walker on life's 
road, to be read by the youth who need friends — by the middle- 
aged who have none too many — by the ones who do and who 
do not see more of their loved ones by the hearth and fender — 
by those who would be happy, yet in the bustle of life have no 
time to ask of those who have not been in such haste to travel 
the road Valter and us set out to walk. 

M. M. POMEROY. 

Sanctum of " Democeat," La Crosse, Wis., 186T. 




" As you are a boy, so will you be a man, Valter. The 
golden crop cannot be garnered till after the grain has 
been sown." — Puye 9. 




Sense 



CHAPTEE I. 




A Few Remarks about the Road of Life. 

lALTEK, my boy, we are walking 

along. The road turns now to 

the right, then to the left. It is 

not altogether smooth, yet we can 

pick our way along and not stumble if we heed 

where we set our feet. There are brambles 

thick set along the road— their points stand 

ready to lacerate all who would force their 

way through without regard for proper paths. 
1* 



10 A Few Memories about the Road of Life, 

And there are others on this same road — some 
are old with- us — more are young with you. 

It is useless, Yalter, to ask where tliey are go- 
ing, when we know not where we are bound to. 
All we have to do, my boy, is to walk on — and 
on — and on. The road will end somewhere. It 
will lead us by many beautiful places, and past 
many treacherous grounds. It will lead us by 
churches — cradles — hearses — weddings — happy 
homes — broken hearts tossed high on limbs of 
loveless trees — old people and young people — 
weddings and funerals. It will lead us, my boy, 
up steep paths where none but the bold dare 
tread, to summits from which we can look down 
upon the world at labor, or it will lead us down 
slippery places, into life's swamps, from whose 
miry depths it will be very hard to retrace our 
steps. 

The road opens — it narrows. Its sides con- 
verge or diverge as we look. It leads to a broad 
plain where men are brothers and heart beats 



A Few Remarhs about the Road of Life. 11 

true to heart, and where the sunlight of God's 
wondrous love germinates love and spiritual fra- 
grance, or into little, narrow prison-houses of 
mind, dank and lonesome. 

It is but a step from one end of this road to 
the other, Yalter— yet it is a hard road to walk. 
The priest and christening are back of us, my boy. 
The cradle is small, Yalter, but there is always 
more room in it than in the largest coffin. The 
minister baptizes you in the morning— he mar- 
ries you at noon — he reads a funeral sermon at 
night — and is ready for the morrow. The road 
ends. You fall out by the way violently, or walk 
out and on the broad plain at the end of the road 
quietly. 

There are flowers and beauties on the road, but 
few of us see them, my boy. There are hidden 
beauties which must be sought out— there are 
countless bowers behind the brambles— there are 
mossy banks at the foot of many of these old 
oaks, where friends can sit and be happy. We 



12 A Few Rema/rks about the Road of Life. 

run from the cradle to the grave, reaching for 
some hand in the distance — stepping to gain a 
foothold on some vessel far out at sea, swiftly fly- 
ing still farther from us. Life is in living. Death 
is not in dying. Life is not the dazzling sun, 
but the countless stars which twinkle and flash — 
God's diamonds that they are. The sun is not 
beautiful, though it be grand. Far more beauty 
in the pleiades. Life is in the little acts — the 
good intentions — the purity of our motives. 
Death is the memory we leave behind us for 
others. 

But few of our hopes are ever realized, Valter. 
It is in fancy that we revel in love and find hap- 
piness in places here and there. How the dreams 
recede! The lips are not so sweet forever as 
once. The heart is at times something besides 
a harmonious harp. The song of love dies out, 
and there sweep over the soul storms of passion, 
dark shadows driven by fierce blasts, old memo- 
ries dragging their slow lengths like wounded 



A Few Bemarks about the Road of Life. 13 

sunbeams, to keep pace with us to the grave. 
The cloud is not solid, and he who would ride 
thereon must first become immortal. And we 
make our own immortality, Yalter. 

Labor for happiness. The marble palace is not 
always the bower of love. The rustling silk does 
not always herald affection. Wealth is not riches 
more than old age is experience. By the humble 
cottage-fire is happiness. The hand of the hon- 
est laborer, calloused though it be, is softer than 
many a palm kid touched to-day. The smile 
that beams on the face of the occupant of that 
little cabin hidden by the woods, as his little ones 
run to meet him when the labors of the day are 
over, is truer and has more of God's sunshine in 
it than a thousand peals of laughter from gas-lit 
halls and sumptuous parlors. The loftiest tree 
does not bear the sweetest fruit. The highest 
bough is not the most secure home for the bird 
that sings our sorrows away. The hand of a poor 
man, Yalter, is the hand of an honest one — the 



14 A Few Rema/rhs about the Road of Life. 

heart of a poor man, my boy, is the safest shelter 
in time of storm — the tongue of the laborer, no 
matter how broken or what its language, is gen- 
erally the tongue of truth, and its rhythm more 
in unison with heavenly harmony than most of 
us dream of. Tears come from the poor man's 
heart. Smiles come therefrom also, and they are 
true and warm. 

In a little while the end of the road will open 
before us. A sudden turn or gentle winding will 
reveal our home. Then we lie down as others 
have before us, on the right or left as we shall 
choose. And the man who prayed at our chris- 
tening will preach at our burial. The birds we 
see overhead will sing as sweetly as now, and rear 
their young with the same care. The sun will 
laugh, the stars will smile, the zephyrs play among 
the boughs — the leaves will dance over our graves 
— the rain patter upon our earthly roof as if in 
mockery, and weeds or flowers spring into life 
and perfume as we shall take seeds with us into 



A Few Remarks about the Road of Life. 15 

the grave. And those who now laugh with us 
will laugh without us. A few tears will be shed, 
and the fountains of grief ^vill then be dried up. 
The sun will shine as usual. The morn, and the 
noon, and the night will come. The lips we have 
kissed, others will kiss. The hand we have clasp- 
ed, another will hold — the heart we have nestled 
in wdll open for another, and the wondrous links 
in the chain of life will still be as complete as 
though we had never been. The eyes which now 
in love answer back wdll soon smile to cheer an- 
other heart. The books and things we love will 
be thrown aside — the hopes we had in childhood 
will fade like shadows — the loves of riper years 
will be comforted after we are gone home — the 
hearth and fender now our own mil be another's. 
The cloud of grief may briug a storm — a tempest, 
but storms and tempests will pass away, and the 
places of eai'th that now know you, Yalter, will 
know you only through your good or evil deeds, 
and the name you leave behind. The w^orld will 



16 A Few JEtemarks about the Road of Life. 

exist long after we are gone. The road will be 
travelled long after our footprints are forgotten. 

Then, Yalter, my boy, let us mellow the mould 
all we can. Every good act is a flower which 
will beautify our final home. Every good deed 
is an evergreen which will mark our resting- 
place. Every good intention is a bird which will 
sing the harmony of love over our grave. Every 
pure motive will be a screen to beat back the hot 
sun of calumny, and every friend we are true to 
will be a witness for us when the hour comes 
when we shall want them. 

Do not stop, my boy, to pick up that crooked 
stick by the roadside. Step over it. Let it lie. 
It is a dirty, vulgar stick we will admit, but do 
not disturb it. Let it remain where it is, and 
soon the green grass will grow up around it — 
the violet and dandelion will bloom beside it — 
the wild rose will reach its tiny arms over it 
and wave its perfumed breatii back and forth, 
filling the air with the aroma of innocence. Let 



A Few Remarks about the Road of Life. 17 

it lie. Some people hurl ugly sticks without an 
object. Thej^do not hurl them to clear the road, 
but to cause some one else to stumble. To pull 
one out from its half-hidden place, is to pull up 
the plants which are weaving the mantle of 
forgetfulness over its deformities, and leave an 
ugly scar on the green sward beneath which 
we must some day rest. Hurl it where you 
will — into the river, and it floats on to lodge 
somewhere. Hurl it to the right or left and it 
falls to the earth — breaking down innocent 
grass, mangling tender flowers, breaking the 
life out of stamen, leaf, and pistil — destroying 
beauty which should be spared for other pur- 
poses. Let the crooked acts — the gnarled 
sticks lie where they fell, Yalter. The plants 
will soon hide them — they will decay and 
give new life through God's changes, to 
please and beautify. All through the grass — 
on either side the road are twigs, sticks, and 
broken limbs. "Walk on, Yalter, and over them. 



18 A Few Remarks about the Road of Life. 

If any one has stumbled and fallen, help him 
up gently and pass on before a (frowd gathers. 
Open your eyes — open your heart — expand 
your ideas and be more of a man. Be true 
to your word — to yourself. Do by others as 
you would have them do by you, and this 
becomes a pleasant road in which to walk, 
Valter, my boy. 




CHAPTER II. 



The Magic Artist. 




HE spirits and fairies held liigh carni- 
val in front of the house last night, 
and this morning the windows pre- 
sented the most beautiful sight I 
ever beheld. While those indoors were slewing, 
winter had set its spring patterns for summer 
work, and how delicate were the touches and 
tracings of its magic pencil ! One window, in 
particular, presented the most beautiful sight I 
ever saw. It seemed as though a convention of 
angel artists had been summoned by the d}dng 
Winter-king, and, by the light of the aurora 



20 The Magic Artist. 

horealis^ had made him a picture of such magic 
beauty, that no one could look upon it without 
feeKng to do him homage. There were the bold, 
heavy strokes of some rough old frost-spirit who 
delighted in making mountains, rocks, cascades, 
and deep ravines. There stood the work of less 
dashing artists, delighting in the production of 
plains, rivers, oceans, and deserts. Then there 
were panes filled with forests deep and dark — 
with woods rivalling the famed Bois de Boulogne 
— with prairies and deserts stretching off into the 
distance, till lost in touches so dehcate that the 
breath of a spirit even, must drive the work away. 
There were sketches by gentler artists, of birds, 
of plants, of flowers, and a thousand beautiful 
fancies. There were the choicest, most delicate 
embroideries, rivalling the finest Honiton, so 
neatly woven, of so fine a texture, and of such 
handsome patterns that it seemed as if the wed- 
ding lace and bridal veils of angels had been 
stolen from their heavenly wardrobe, and placed 



The Magic ArUst 31 

on the window before me to teach man his utter 
insignificance. 

The entire panorama of sea — of earth — of air 
— of Heaven and of Eternity, lay spread out 
there, and countless thousands of more beautiful 
pictures were presented than artist ever saw in 
his most golden dreams. Cities, teaming with 
life ; streets filled with horses, carriages, and pe- 
destrians, crossing, passing, and repassing each 
other; blocks of stores, in the windows of which 
could be seen all that makes up the wardrobe of 
the most fashionable lady or gentleman, or the 
coarser habiliments of poverty. There were 
blocks of tenement-houses, the roofs broken in and 
walls toppling — the doors unhinged and windows 
shattered — leaning and nodding toward each 
other as if mocking at the misery of their inmates ! 

There were cities silent and deserted, with bat- 
tered walls, crumbling houses, ruined churches 
and streets, looking silent, and filled with rubbish. 
There were cities filled with handsome residences, 



22 The Magic Artist 

splendid parks in which were fountains — churches 
built after a score of architectural designs, the 
spires losing themselves in the midst of countless 
glittering stars, each pointing to heaven as the 
source of inspiration. Groups of people — flocks 
of birds — of water-fowl, and herds of horses were 
to be seen. There were trees growing up straight 
and handsome, the upper limbs heavy with foliage 
— trees gnarled and tvristed as is the life of the 
friendless — trees laden with tropical fruits — trees 
in whose branches could be seen beautiful " feath- 
ered" birds — trees under which could be seen 
lovers fondly reclining — trees in which serpents 
were writhing and swinging from branch to 
branch, and trees beneath which were groups 
of cattle, apparently enjoying the shade a capri- 
cious puff of wind had thrown from the thick- 
ly woven branches ! Oh, how beautiful ! 

Mountains reared their lofty summits till the 
highest peaks seemed lost in the antechamber of 
heaven, and adown whose sides hung frozen cas- 



The Magic Artist. 23 

cades. There were towers rivalling Bunker 
Hill, the Washington Monument, the leaning 
tower of Pisa, or the tower of Babel ! There 
were plains on which deer, wild horses, cattle, and 
buffalo roamed and raced and sported in all their 
native freedom. Flower gardens had been culti- 
vated there, so perfect that on the different varie- 
ty of shrubs and plants could be seen leaves, 
stems, flowers, and buds, with humming-birds and 
butterflies lightly hovering thereon. There were 
forests interlaced with walks, and filled in with 
tangled thickets, from which protruded heads of 
wild boars, of tigers, of hyenas, of toads, of ser- 
pents, and of devils ! There were little water- 
falls leaping from rock to rock, or pouring over 
abrupt cliff's, losing themselves in the spray 
which fell on the tree-tops below, or rising in a 
cloud of stars, glittering like diamonds 'neath 
the rays of the rising sun ! 

Then came lakes and oceans on whose bosoms 
could be seen ships sailing smoothly along, or 



24 Tke Magic Artist. 

plunging madly over the rolHng waves before a 
howling tempest! There were rivers covered 
with various craft, along whose banks walked 
students with their books, philosophers with their 
thoughts, speculators with their plans, hypocrites 
with their promises, children with their play- 
mates, lovers with their hopes : and dancing, 
grinning devils following after, overtaking here 
and there a poor victim who had been aban- 
doned. There were rivers lying between 
banks lined with bending grass, or lofty trees, 
and bluffs reaching so high that it seemed as if 
their tops were piercing the doom of heaven. 
Groups by the fireside — ^bands of angels — crowds 
of spirits interweaving and interlacing with each 
other, were pictured out with the greatest ac- 
curacy. 

There were solitary farm-houses, silent grave- 
yards, lonely chambers, and deserted prisons ; 
there was a battle-field, on which could be seen 
soldiers engaged in deadly strife with weapons 



The Magic Artist. 25 

flashing in the sun — warriors, on foot and mount- 
ed, rushing hither and thither— horses, madly 
phmging over the forms of the dead and dying — 
groups of soldiers bearing off a wounded com- 
rade — officers leading their forlorn hopes— sol- 
diers kneeling in prayer; writhing in agony; 
engaged in hand-to-hand conflict, and standing 
sentinel on the outpost — squads of men beside 
cannon, in front of which lay wreaths of dead 
or wounded — officers' tents — regiments of men 
not yet called into action. Over this field hov- 
ered ravens and angels, while on it could be 
seen women guarding and nursing those dearer 
to them than life itself. 

Every artist from the spirit-world must have 
been engaged here last night. There were im- 
plements and machines of all kinds. A printing- 
press standing beside a guillotine— a cradle be- 
neath a gallows— a violin and case of surgical 
instruments lay side by side on a card-table— a 

cannon on which was a pipe of peace, stood boldlv 

2 



26 The Magic Artist. 

forth— a broadsword and quill pen hung suspend- 
ed from the same hook — a pleasure carriage and 
an artillery wagon stood ready for use, while in 
the distance was a railroad on which was a train 
made up of cars, stages, high-back cutters, wheel- 
barrows, stone-boats, Chinese ploughs, arid Indian 
dug-outs ! And each was perfect, as though 
these were the patterns from which everything 
of the kind had been fashioned. 

There were crowded ball-rooms — picnic par- 
ties roaming through grottos, and resting in 
sylvan-like retreats and hidden trysting-places. 
There were preachers holding forth to crowded 
audiences, composed of bareheaded men and 
veiled women. There were farm scenes and city 
scenes. There were sportsmen on the plain in 
full pursuit of buffalo — soldiers on horses chasing 
flying Indians — hunters in the forest standing 
beside a tree, or kneeling behind a log, waiting 
the approach of a deer, seen in the distance, 
snuffing danger from afar ! Everything that man 



The Magic Artist. 27 

could think of was here, so beautifully designed, 
so boldly commenced, so lightly finished, so per- 
fect and so varied, that it seemed as if the whole 
panorama of eternity had been spread before 
those who chose to witness the magnificent dis- 
play. There were libraries filled with books 
—carriages filled with people— stores filled with 
goods— the air filled with birds— faces of men, 
women, and children, filled with joy, hope, fear, 
love, hate, doubt, sorrow, anguish, remorse, and 
despair— heavens filled with angels, firmaments 
studded with stars, each scene glistening, flashing, 
and glittering under the rays of the morning sun 
with a far greater brilliancy than ever shone from 
pearl or diamond ! Beautiful and mysterious ! 
* * * * jf ^ 

I have just been in to look at the window again, 
and such a change ! My stars have all disappear- 
ed ; the delicate tracings making the foliage of 
the forests have all melted down. The beautiful 
plants are stripped of their leaves and flowers, 



28 TJie Magic Artist. 

and look more like straws, broken and twisted 
into a thousand ngly shapes ! The pretty little 
humming-birds and butterflies have all melted 
and are not to be seen ! The birds, that looked 
so beautiful half-hidden among the leaves of the 
trees, are flown, and the little twigs on which 
they sat have melted ofl" one by one, till all the 
pretty branches are gone ! The lovers are gone 
from their trysting-places, and the little mounds 
on which they sat, surrounded by flowers, have 
been transformed into wet, cold graves! The 
beautiful pines, from the drooping boughs of 
which hung such beautiful snow draperies a few 
moments since, have been breathed on by a pass- 
ing breeze, and now stand there, gnarled and 
twisted trunks, devoid of beauty or interest. 
The splendid embroidery is not to be seen ; but 
where it was so artistically draped and elegantly 
displayed, hangs something that looks like a 
shroud! The crowded room in which an 
hour since so many were dancing, has grown 



The Magic Artist. 



29 



larger, but the dancers have departed! Where 
the orchestra was, is now a coffin, with but one 
solitary mourner kneeling by its side, her head 
bent in weeping, her feet bathed in tears t God 
bless the solitary one, wherever she may be ! The 
pretty walks and borders in the Bois de Boulogne 
have given place to sloppy gutters, down which 
the molten frost is coursing ! The mountains are 
dwindling down— the plains on which BO many 
buffalo were seen, are still there, but oh! how 
changed ! The ships have gone to the bottom 
of the lakes and oceans, while the oceans are also 
disappearing ! The river that looked so beauti- 
ful an hour since is still to be seen, but it is now 
the river of death! Its swelling waters have 
flooded the flowery banks-have swept down 
the little craft that floated so securely there not 
long since, and are now climbing and washing up 
against the sides of the bluffs ! The battle-field 
has been drowned in tears, and all that remains 
of its glittering soldiery, and thirst for glory, is a 



30 Hie Magic Artist 

blank. The spires have gone from the churches — 
the cities have been drowned out — the streets are 
little Holland canals — the deer and hunter have 
sunk into the earth — the crowd that walked by 
the river bank have all gone, and the whole scene 
has changed ! 

The railroad has been taken up, and the train 
of cars has given way for a hearse in which is a 
coffin ! All the happiness I saw there an hour 
since has fled, and nothing now is left but tears 
and panes! The little cascades, rivulets, and 
brooklets have run into a lake, in which I can 
see a few mounds covered by fiends, leaping and 
grinning at the general ruin ! The angels have 
departed, but all over the window are the tears 
they shed at the fall of my miniature world ! 
The tree so laden with fruit has been trimmed of 
its branches till it resembles a man who has lost 
his friends, and from whom hope has fled — a 
twisted, ugly, deformed trunk, fast settling into 
the general destruction. 

* * * ^ * * 



The MagiG Artist. 31 

Kow all is gone ! trees, plants, birds, angels, 
demons, rivers, animals, ships, implements, men, 
cities, deserts, mountains — all — all have melted— 
a few tears being all that is left of what was 
once so beautiful. Like some men who by one 
action can sweep out a life of honor and happi- 
ness, so has nature, in one hour, swept away the 
labor of an entire night, leaving us but the les- 
son to enjoy the beautiful while it is with us, and 
that when the ball-room of her life gives way for 
the room of weeping, we may merit the tears of 
at least a solitary mom-ner. 




CHAPTER III. 



In which People are spoken to Sensibly. 




|H ! my boy, the:e is not one in a thou- 
sand thinks of it — not one in two 
thousand can remember the lesson 
after it is taught him or her. Look 
over the world of nations or of individuals. They 
who do the best are they who mind their own 
business. God did not make man double-bar- 
relled. 1^0 man can well attend to the business 
which concerns himself and that which concerns 
another. If his brain is afflicted with strabismus, 
somebody must suffer. From the cradle to the 
grave the same lesson is daily given. Mind your 



People are spohen to Sensibly. 33 

business, Yalter, my boy. Keep the rubbish 
cleared from before your own door. What is the 
sense of kicking up a row over what concerns you 
no more than gravestones or their letters concern 
the dead ? 

If a man insults you personally, resent it. If 
he wrongs a friend, stand up for that friend as he 
would for you. But do not go snooping around, 
prying with pointed nose into what affects you 
not. Whose business is it if this neighbor drives 
a black horse, that neighbor a white one, and your 
other neighbor goes on foot like a monarch over 
his own will ! Does it aifect you if such a man is 
another's friend or his enemy? It is not your 
province to harness into quarrels not your own, 
lest in time you have so many on hand there 
will be no time to attend to them. 

They who are rich are they who mind their 

own business. Find a happy man or woman, and 

the affairs of another trouble them but little. 

It is none of your business if the minister 
2* 



84 Pecyple a/re spoken to Sensibly. 

kisses one of the sisters, or one of the sisters thus 
salutes the minister. It cannot affect you, when a 
man you know calls on a girl you don't know, or 
on one you do. What if there is kissing behind the 
door — in tunnels, and when the night is dark, at 
the vestibule of the church, or over the gate ! 
Would you not do the same if the chance were of- 
fered ? If a man is making money, is it any of your 
business, provided he does it honestly ? There are 
a thousand things coming up every day, in which 
people have no heart. Yet they meddle therewith, 
as if life or death hung in the balances. Stand 
up straight. Look to yourself. Do not be an 
echo. Have a mind of your own or do not take a 
position. You cannot control heaven or earth, nor 
the occupants of either. Man was born of God. 
Each has his rights, as have you. Don't pry. 
Don't meddle. Don't make a fool of yourself 
by laying out work you can't do. Go on about 
your own business, and let others do the same. 
If a man is in trouble, help him out. Do not 



People are spoken to Sensibly. 35 

help him in. God laiows, my boy, life rims to 
trouble, as clouds do to storms, or gardens to 
weeds. Try it a week, and see how much light- 
er the spirit-load when Saturday night comes. 
I^ever go out of the way to make a fool of your- 
self, or to make others miserable. There is need 
of men of sense now. There always will be need 
of such. Do not sit gazing out of the window to 
see what chance there is in the vicinity to raise 
a row. If you have nothing else to do, go to 
sleep. Where God makes hearts, man cannot 
alter the actions of others. Some will laugh— 
some will weep — some will mourn. Don't wor- 
ry. It is better to close the eyes at times 
than to keep them open. Sometimes, my 
boy, people see too much, and when on the 
witness-stand embarrass themselves more than 
others. Don't be envious — or jealous. Don't 
be governed by spite. Don't believe all that 
people tell you. There is many a one, my boy, 
who would make a fool of you. There are thou- 



36 People are spoken to SensiUy. 

sands of silly stones told which had their origin 
in idle and lying brains. Don't circulate them. 
Don't belieA'C them when told of yourself unless 
they are true. Be what your friends think you 
are — avoid being what your enemies say you are, 
and be happy. Keep your own heart right. 
Mind your own business and let that of others 
alone. Do not dig in the ground to find the 
seed of the pointed thorn that scratches you. 
Time spent in that manner is lost. Go on. 
Keep a stiff upper lip — live to please your own 
heart. ]^o other rests with you in the grave. 
No other keeps you company in that grand city 
where each minds his own business. The city 
of the dead is one of peace and quietness. There, 
no one interferes with the affairs of his neighbor. 
There, no petty strifes, quarrels, and bickerings 
annoy or trouble. What a lesson those silent 
mounds give. There, each is king over his own 
tenement, and there is no trouble, because each 
minds his own business. And Yalter, my boy, 



People are spol^sn to Sensibly. 37 

the world would be thus peaceable if each man 
and woman in it would learn a lesson. Try it for 
awhile. Look down into your own heart, my boy. 
See if there does not arise each day many a 
chance to breed trouble by meddling with or 
peddling rumors — many a chance to avoid it by 
going yom* way with closer mouth. Each man 
owes it to himself to make not only himself but 
others happy — no way can it be done so well 
and surely as by minding your own business. 
Remember this, my boy, and your circle of 
friends will grow larger and your heart lighter, 
as the invisible pages are turned which bring 
you nearer to the solving of the great riddle, the 
key of which is so-called death. 



CHAPTER lY. 




In which Little Boys and Big Boys are told 
TO Think. 

|ALTEE-, my boy, do you ever pause 
to think ? If not, you are at fault, 
when there is bo much to think 
of. There are millions of ideas yet 
to be born. There are millions of years yet to 
live. It may not be on this earth, but we shall 
live somewhere. The grave is the lock which 
must be opened before we touch or enjoy the 
treasures beyond its dark keeping — before we 
go to the punishments or rewards we plan for 
in this world. And there is much to think of 
which concerns this life. As you are a boy, so 



Little Boys and Big Boys told to Thinlc. 39 

will you be a man, Yalter. The golden crop 
cannot be garnered till after the grain has been 
sown. The impression cannot be read till after 
the type is set in order. And the errors show 
in the proof. You cannot be a man unless in 
boyhood you decide to be one. People seldom 
blunder on success as a blind pig falls into a well. 
Luck is nothing more than effort well directed. 
Stones do not of themselves turn up as you pass 
by to reveal the wealth hidden under them. 
Men do not often succeed by chance. This world 
was not made by chance. It was made. Men are 
made. It takes years to make them. In all sorts 
of trials, all kinds of troubles — under many try- 
ing circumstances the lessons of life are learned. 
If you would succeed as a man, you must try to 
excel as a boy. Think ! That is the word. Think 
that a rowdy boy makes a loafer. Think that an 
idle boy makes a blackguard. Think that a care- 
less boy makes a poor man. Think that a poor 
man is a slave. Think what others have done, 



40 Little Boys and Big Boys told to Think, 

and that it is in your power to do still better if 
you will. Think that you will some day be a 
man, and called on to take an active part in life's 
battles. You will either lead or be led. It lies 
in you to decide which. Wrinkles creep over 
the face never to go off. Habits silently but 
surely creep into your spirit, and you cannot 
get rid of them. You will some day be a man. 
Think whether you will be a voter all your life, 
or be voted for. Think whether you will please 
those who bid, or bid those you please. Think 
whether you will be a fretful, disagreeable old 
man whom every one will wish dead, or a respected 
old gentleman whose grave will be watered with 
tears — whose kind words and smiles will be miss- 
ed — whose precepts or examples will be loved 
and copied. Think of all these things, my boy. 

It is easy to be poor man. All you have to do 
is to work hard and never think. Work hard 
and spend foolishly at card-table and in nonsense. 
Marry in haste and repent at leisure. 




" Think whether you will be a voter all your Ufe, or be 
voted lor." — Page 40. 



Little Bm/s and Big Boys told to Thinh. 41 

Slide down hill, and walk back drawing your 
sled after yon. If yon are poor, run in debt. 
Keep poor — a slave to every man. If yon have 
a wife and are in debt, keep a hired girl. If in 
debt with nothing to do, keep two servant-girls. 
If very poor and in debt, keep two servant-girls 
and a dog. Keep up style. Fish for fools — bait 
the hook with the biggest one and you will catch 
them sure. If you owe a man, cheat him out of 
the debt. If you can borrow instead of earning, 
do so. Keep borrowing. Pry into all that con- 
cerns you not. Tell all you know. Teach every 
one to dislike you. Act out nature and be a hog, 
or think a little and be a man. Life is a show. 
You can have a hard seat or a cushioned one. 
The first investment for a ticket decides the 
matter. 

The man who never thinks is a fool. His life 
is like midnight dreams — ^morn comes and they 
are gone. Death comes and the game is over. 
Fortune does not teaze men to shake her hand. 



4:2 Little Boys and Big Boys told to Think. 

A good opjDortunity never waits. If you are not 
ready, some one else will be. The wheel goes 
round — the car moves on — if you do not occupy 
the seat, some one else will. It will not be long 
before you will be a man, Yalter. Then, what 
will you do ? Whose brains will you use ? Do 
you intend to work all day for just what will last 
you all night, or have you an idea for the future ? 
Are you doing your best? If not, why not? 
Think of these things, my boy. Look for bad 
examples. Shun them. Look for good examples. 
Imitate them. When you see a man fail, be 
assured there was a reason. Think and search it 
out. If he succeeds, learn his secret and foUow 
it. If a man has friends, think how he made 
them. All friends are made. Relations grow. 
Friends we make for ourselves. We make them 
and we love them. Enemies are as necessary 
to success as vinegar to pickles. They are the 
long oars, which in sturdy hands shoot the 
boat, deep though it be laden, far out and 



Little Boys amd Big Boys told to ThinTc. 43 

clear over the foaming breakers into a smooth 
sea beyond. 

Do not be a h}^ocrite, my boy. 'Better be a 
thief — a robber. Play yom- hand open. Never 
wear spectacles to deceive folks. Never profess 
to do what you do not. Do not be afraid of 
what others may say — people will talk. Fools 
will turn grindstones for others to sharpen 
scythes upon, and fools will talk of that which 
does not concern them, of what they cannot effect 
— of that which is none of their business. Think 
for yourself. Advise with your own heart. Do 
as best pleases you. Satisfy one man first. Do 
not promise over a thousand pups out of one 
litter. He may be a mean man who would not 
promise a pup to a friend, but he is a meaner 
man who promises more than he can perform. 
Do not take four passengers in a wagon intended 
for but two. Do not try to please everybody 
and please none. Few people care for you. 
Fear is stronger than love. But few people will 



44 Little Boys and Big Boys told to ThimJc. 

love you. Society thinks you are an orange to 
be squeezed for its benefit. Think how few 
people care for Myou. en seldom work except 
for pay. People are generally friends only while 
they can lap from your saucer. They eat the 
corn and throw the cob away. 




CHAPTER Y. 



A Letter from Home. 




HE post-mark has a famili ar look. The 
chirography speaks before the en- 
velope is torn off of a letter from 
home — the dear old home by the 
brook side many hundred miles away. With eager, 
trembling hand the welcome token is drawn from 
its office-marked wrapper, and then how the 
half-stilled heart drinks the contents! From a 
mother, or one who in childhood's days filled the 
place of the loved and dead. Each line breathes 
the spirit of love, care, friendship, and affection so 
deeply gi-aven on the tablets of memory. And 



4:6 A Letter from Home. 

how visions of the old home come crowding up ! 
The store-house of the past opens to the inner 
rooms, and down the long aisles of yearly events 
there looms up pictures varied, sad, joyous, and 
cherished. "We read on, and back to the scenes 
of childhood the soul rushes like a dove let loose 
from tangled snare. We see the old house. ITo 
palace half so loved. The little yard with here 
and there a bunch of flowers. The old well into 
whose depths so oft we gazed as lovers do into 
each other's eyes. The moss- covered bucket with 
rusty bands. The little spring in the milk-house. 
The rows of pans on the rustic bench. The 
chamber with its well-filled rooms. The parlor 
kept sacred for company. The table at whose 
head her of the kind heart and gentle eye so well 
presided. How large a freight is there on the . 
return trip of memory! The garden with its 
plants and weeds — its scattered tools and little 
beds. Out into the old barn. There is the hay- 
mow where oft we romped with dog and play- 



A Letter from Home. 47 

mates — the red fanning-mill in whose mysterious 
depths were eggs and nests — the broken-tined 
pitchfork — the partly toothed rake — the bent- 
edged scoop — ^the old-fashioned flail, and hunts 
under closely packed sheaves for rats and mice. 
Who does not love a letter from home ? A pic- 
ture of the past — a key to the million of pictures ! 
The little old bookcase with the dog-eared vol- 
umes quaint and brown. The hated churn in the 
cellar. The loft where erst t]ie rattling nuts told 
of foraging youngsters. The apple-bins and bar- 
rels in the cellar. The wagon-house with that 
old-style buggy — ^its high back — its small forward 
and large hind wheels long since obsolete — the 
old house-dog — the sheep with tinkling bell, 
heard on the distant hillside — the berry patch 
wherein us youngsters romped and hunted amid 
briers and with scratched hands for red-caps and 
blackberries. The little stream which sang all 
the night and whistled over pebbly beds all the 
day. How we loved to catch therefrom the strug- 



4:8 A Letter from Home. 

gling prize. And then the school-house where 
oft and oft the falling book or slate has called the 
dreamer back to his work — where childish loves 
and jealousies were ripened by a glance or buried 
with a word. How memory comes with her 
many offerings ! Pen fails ; words run together as 
drops of water. Like flowers in one's lap, there 
is a pile of pictures. There come a thousand 
fond recollections. The young sweethearts — the 
struggles for stolen kisses — the dreams of life 
never realized. The longings and sighings for 
the future to open its wonderful doors still faster 
and faster. 

And the years come like sentinels, each bring- 
ing a mile-post. Children grown into youths. 
One by one they leave the loved hearth-stone — 
one by one new faces come and go. There is a 
marriage here — a funeral there. "Which party 
goes to misery, and which to happiness, none but 
God knows ! The chances are even ! The family 
circle is broken. In the front room — whose still- 



A Letter from Home. 49 

ness is heavy and terrible with dread — lie one 
after another who have changed before us ! The 
silent step — the careful breathing — the low whis- 
per as the sheet is turned back to show the once 
warm lips now cold and blue in death. The 
wondering if we too must die — the crowd of 
mourners — the slow ride to the grave — the hol- 
low rattle upon the coffin — all come before us 
like a panorama in detail. 

And then, other changes. And, still, other 
changes. Each bringing a new picture, some- 
times golden-lined — oftener black like the storm- 
cloud which bursts, and growls, and mutters, then 
rolls its uglv self away to reveal the clear ceru- 
lean beyond. 

Letters from home! God bless them. Who 
would be without them ? Who would refuse or 
neglect to write them. When the heart is sad 
they bring gladness — when all the future and all 
the present look like midnight, the past comes up, 
and, conning over the stored pictures, the heart 



60 A Letter from Home. 

forgets its weariness and wakes to new life — to 
new hope — to newer love — to stronger faith — to 
braver courage. A letter from home ! More 
precious than gold — more prized than hopes, for 
it takes us back to happy hours, and renews the 
strength for the future. 






CHAPTER VI. 

We Reason Together on Success. 

I ALTER, my hoj, the great object of 
life is success. 'No one works for 
failure, though men often fall short 
of their aims or get off the train of 
events a long way before reaching the station. 
In the silent hours of night — in the lonely 
and dreamy hours of day, an active brain of 
earnest man is ever plaiming some new road to 
success — some route as yet unexplored. Life is 
often spent in study, and down to the narrow 
mansion passes all a man's hopes before he is 
ready to rest from labor. There are many ways 



62 We Reason Together on Success. 

to succeed, my boy, and very many ways to fail. 
In love or business, in the mighty struggle for 
wealth or power, there are many lessons to be 
learned. And, my boy, we have books on medi- 
cine, religion, horse-doctoring, curing hams, mak- 
ing farms, railroading, cotton-growing, raising 
strawberries, necromancy, banking, and a thou- 
sand other things. These tell us how to do 
almost everything — still people fail. There is 
something WTong. A leak in talent exists some- 
where. 

Yet it seems as though eYQvj one could suc- 
ceed. No one starts out in life with other in- 
tentions ; but, my boy, the road becomes too 
long at the other end for many a brave youth 
— for many a stout-hearted man. There are 
little lessons to be learned. There are small 
wheels to machinery as well as large ones. Life 
is a complicated invention. Little things are 
many times overlooked till too late. We notice 
the man without looking at his eyes. We see 



We Reason Together on Success. 63 

the dollar without looking at the penny. "We 
fail, mj boy, for the lack of some little pin 
or connection passed by as worthless. Every 
failure in life has a starting-point, as every tree 
which breaks had first to bend; as every river 
was first a spring. Let us look out for the 
small items ; larger ones will take care of them- 
selves. 

God, in His wisdom, gave us different ideas. 
If we had all been made alike — if each had 
the same tastes, this world would have been 
like a fine-toothed comb. We should have 
built houses alike, worn clothes alike, and been 
like a basket of eggs on general principles. 
Then every man would have loved the same 
woman — and what a row that one thing would 
have kicked up ! All other women would have 
been jealous ; all the men would have been 
fighting; the one woman would be poisoned 
or slandered to death by her sex — the men 
would kill each other off in battle on her 



64 We Reason Together on Success. 

account, and a nation of old maids would be 
left desolate. 

There is a way, Yalter, my boy, to do every- 
thing. First open shop. Make up your mind 
what to do. Then shun the bridges others fell 
through. If you promise to do a thing, do it. 
If you do a man a kindness, do it with a pleas- 
ant face. A little vinegar will spoil much 
cream. Do not speak harshly and coldly after 
doing a kindness. A clap of thunder will 
cm-die milk, and nothing will ever make it 
sweet again. Do not ask for favors till you 
have earned them or can give security that 
you will do so. If you have a friend, stick to 
him. If you owe a man, do not wait to be 
dunned, but settle as though it were the pleas- 
ure it should be, and is, to honest men. If 
in business, do not wait to settle till there 
will be a balance coming to you; others may 
need money more than you. Be a little more 
prompt than your word. If you are to pay a 



We Reason Together on Success. 55 

man, do it before night, as night is the next 
day. If you are in hard luck, never whine; 
never give up and let the battle go on with- 
out you. Get up and work the harder. The 
contents of a letter are not generally known 
until it is opened. Do not wear a sour face. 
People are afraid of such, and well they may 
be. If you are laboring for another, do by 
him as you would by yourself, only a little 
more so. If others are laboring for you, take 
an interest in them. The ivy was not in- 
tended to support the oak. Men do not like 
to work for nothing. Never promise an apple 
when you cannot give even a seed. 

And another thing, my boy. Do not be in 
haste to quit. Many a girl would have said 
" Yes ! " in another minute ; many a nut would 
have cracked had you hit it once more. Many a 
tough stick of wood have we split by " one more 
blow." Many a mark has been hit by one more 
shot. Many a dollar has been collected by going 



56 We JReason Together on Sitccess. 

for it once more. Many a fast friend has been 
made by one more kind word. Many a tear has 
been stopped by one more fond kiss. Many a 
home has been made happy by the spending 
therein one more hour each night with the loved 
one or ones awaiting your coming. Do not be 
in too great a hurry, Yalter, my boy. If young, 
you can wait ; if old, haste may take you hence 
too quick. Wait on others, then take your time. 
The river grows larger the farther it runs, and 
love grows stronger the longer it waits. There 
are years to come after this. If not, Httle mat- 
ter who is ahead now. Do your duty, my boy. 
Keep your own heart ready for the race, or ready 
to go HOME. Deal honorably with all. Do not 
have too many confidants. A secret which re- 
quires two or more to hold it, is the very devil 
once it breaks loose. 

A little word in kindness spoken, a pleasant 
greeting, often makes a friend who lasts for life. 
When the heart is light, a cold word makes it 



We Reason Together on Success. 57 

sick. When weary with care and trouble, a kind 
word or some trifling act sheds God's own sun- 
shine in it. Most people have good memories. 
They forget a kindness, but seldom forget an 
injury or unkind word. A quail alights, you 
can see where — but who can tell where it will 
rise ? So with kind words or cruel ones. If you 
cannot do a person a favor, tell him so frankly, 
and in such a way that he will not have ground 
for offence. If you cannot help a man, never 
promise him. Then he knows where to find you, 
and has respect for you. And above all, never 
be too stingy to be honest. When a liberal man 
dies, people are sorry ; when a miser goes hence, 
people are indifferent. 

The way to success is easy enough, if we only 
look sharp to the future and despise not the small 
things of life. And these small things, my boy, 
make the muckle for all of us. 



3* 



CHAPTER YII. 



Saturday Night. 




IjSTE by one the days go out. Satur- 
day night comes. 

One by one the hopes go out. 
Eternity comes. Like hailstones 
the days drop from the clouds of time, to fall 
cold and dreary into the fathomless past. Each 
day is a life — is a history. The hopes of the 
morning are tears by night — the air-castles of 
Monday are the graves of Saturday night, alas, 
too oft! God gives us sun, life, rain, health, 
friends, and that which is more blessed than all, 
golden Hope. All the rest desert us ; but Hope, 



Saturday Night. 59 

twin Bister of Immortality, .is ours through the 
week — into and beyond Saturday night — into 
the grave, to bear us dry and happy through the 
Stygian flood and on to God. Blessed be Hope, 
and blessed be the nights which call us to kneel 
at. her altar. Changes have come during the 
interim between this and last Saturday night. 
Many a mound in the church-yard or cemetery 
marks God's bruises on the desolate human heart. 
Many a heart-joy has been dipped in sadness. 
Many a dress which one week since was white 
is now of the deepest mourning. Some mourn. 
Some wear mourning while the heart rejoices. 
Some there are w^hose hearts are darker than the 
grave, for the lamp of love is broken, and the joy 
of years has gone home. Scarlet buds and som- 
bre blossoms. Such is life. 

! Who of us all are nearer heaven than one week 
since ? Who of us have laid up treasures above ? 
Who of us have mellowed the earth in which all 
must rest ? The account is for or against us ! We 



60 Saturday Night, 

all thought and vowed one week since to do 
right, but alas for temptation ! All of us have 
argued with the subtle reasoner — few of us have 
come off victorious. Prayers have been uttered 
since last Saturday night. Curses have been in- 
voked. The record has been perfectly kept, and 
some day it will be opened to our eyes. Let us 
rest from labor and renew our vows. By the 
family fireside — by the family altar — ^by the cot 
and the couch there is much to do this night. 
Look back down the dark lane. See what wrecks 
are there strewn. Hopes which have died. 
Promises badly broken. Good intentions and 
noble resolutions lie bleeding and torn as far 
back as the eye can reach. Hard words lie 
where soft ones would have been better. There 
are disappointments and betrayals, bitter words 
and wicked acts strewn thick over the groimd. 
Euins — ^ruins — ruins! Here and there a fra- 
grant flower lifts its silent voice and rears its 
pearly leaf to gladden the debris around. Here 



Saturday Night. dl 

and there a blossom — here and there, but too far 
apart, can be seen the beautiful in strange con- 
trast with the ruins and wrecks. Life is a dark 
lane. Would to God there were more flowers 
and fewer ruins ! Would there were more loves 
and fewer hates. More white and less red. 

How the changes come over us ! What gave 
joy is now a pile of ashes ! The lips we loved 
to kiss a week since, now have no nectar ! The 
hand which once thrilled in rapture at the slight 
touch of love, now forgets to answer back ! 
The eye has grown cold or worse than indiffer- 
ent ! Who is to blame % Some one. And why ? , 
N"one but God can tell truly ! As the sun goes 
down and the Sabbath rises, let us strive again I 
Mother ! clasp still closer to your heart the pledge 
you now caress, for God may want it back be- 
fore another Saturday night is yours. The pet 
you kissed and caressed one week ago, haa 
been taken away — who will go next ! Deal 
gently with those who have erred. Heaven 



62 Saturday Night, 

is forgiving. God is love. Strive to be happy. 
Let kind words, good wishes, and liberahty of 
sentiment, expand all our hearts this night, for 
they are blessed influences — none too plenty. 

If you have a friend, draw him closer to your 
heart. (If you have a life in your keeping, do by 
it as you would be done by Pause ere you do 
evil. Think of the reward there is for those who 
resist temptation — for those who love.) Look 
back. Listen ! A little, prattling voice, now 
stilled in death I — a mother's gentle tones, per- 
haps well-nigh forgotten ! — a sister's plaintive 
eye is calling you to happiness ! Look over the 
past — the blessed memories — the mementos of 
the heart — and tell us if you are not glad that 
heaven is nearer by one more Saturday Kight. 




CHAPTEK YIII. 




In which Easy Lessons are Given Out. 

HEEE are a thousand things yet to 
learn, my boy. Life is a school, and 
most of us study on hard benches 
till the final dismissal comes, learn- 
ing but to forget. One lesson is this, Yalter. 
Learn to be a man — not a sneak. Do not be a 
counterfeit of somebody who is but a chapter of 
baseness. Hold your head high. No matter if your 
spoon be of horn instead of gold— your stockings 
wool instead of silk— your shoes of wood instead 
of leather. Strive to be a man. Do as you 
agree to, or give a truthful reason. Man was 



64 Easy Lessons are Given Out. 

never made to fear his fellow. God is the only 
one outside your own heart to whom you must 
render a balance sheet with your winding one. 
If you promise, keep faith. If you pledge, by all 
means fulfil. Never go about the streets as a 
sheep cur sneaks h6me toward morning. Be a 
man. Give your reason. Take no one's foot- 
ings, but run up the column for yourself. If you 
wish a favor, Yalter, my boy, ask for it like a 
man, frankly and honestly. Do not whine, and 
dodge, and chip around the edges, but go straight 
to the centre at once. If you have aught against 
a man, out with it. Never stab in the dark — do 
not crawl from bud to blossom — from blossom to 
fruit of life, like a snake in the grass, making 
others shudder at your approach and leaving a 
track of slimy scandal to mark your route to 
death. Form an opinion. A ^vrong one is better 
than none, for it can be changed. Learn to rely 
on your own ideas. Learn to think and act for 
yourself, as though you were born to give and 



Easy Lessons are Given Out. 65 

others to follow advice. Always shake a rattle- 
box before purchasing, and study the sense of an 
idea before you fall in with it. Many a deep 
chasm is bridged by the thinnest and rottenest 
of planks. Always keep something back. A 
nest-egg answers a twofold purpose. !Never tell 
all you know at once. Do not squander all your 
earnings, my boy, for paupers are never buried in 
beds of roses. 

When all is still — after night has pinned with 
golden studs her curtain of beauty, pause and 
think. Look well to the road you have already 
passed — look close to the road and its different 
branches as it appears before you. In the great 
walk of life few men retrace their steps, as the 
journey is tedious, and the road full of scoff- 
ers. Be very certain you are in the right one, 
my boy. Success is a thorny path. Its points 
and brambles were left on purpose to deter those 
who are not brave from continued skirmishes 
with fortune's pickets. None but men of pluck 



66 Easy Lessons cure Given Out. 

deserve success, as " none but the brave deserve 
the fair." Boy or man, strive for the golden 
future. Earn and enjoy. It is all of life to live, 
but it is not all of death to die. Look into your 
own heart when all is still. Look over accounts 
carefully and see who is getting the most credit 
— you or the devil. Strike out all the bad 
thoughts which climb over the heart-wall and 
take root within. Plant anew the little seeds of 
love and noble-hearted kindness which shed a 
perfume around the dying bed and make a grate- 
ful shade in which to have the final struggle with 
death. Never do in the night what you would be 
ashamed of in the daytime. Do not go ahead 
with your lips and hold back with your heart. 
Speak the truth, Yalter. Who are you afraid 
of? Learn to be a man among men, and to be a 
man of honor. Such men never want for friends. 
Look about you. Take warning from others. 
There are lessons for the eye as well as for the 
ear. See how many scores there are whose heads 



Edsy Lessons are Griven Out. 67 

are as large — whose foreheads are as high — 
whose eyes are as far apart as jour own, but who 
wrecked on their own actions years since, and are 
fast breaking to pieces with no one to lend a 
hand to save. It takes but a little to lose a repu- 
tation. It takes years to acquire a good one. 
When you see a mean act, set it up as a finger- 
post. Shun it. When you see or hear of a good, 
a noble deed, emulate it. If not on a large 
scale, do it on a small one. The widow's mite 
was more precious than gold from the rich. 
When you see a man doing well in business, take 
lessons from him. Stick to your friends. Never 
throw off one of them. They are worse than 
broken stones to walk over when once wronged. 
Fish with a long pole, my boy. Throw boldly 
into the stream, and throw beyond your fellows. 
Deep water holds the larger fish. Form a pur- 
pose. Make up your mind to be something. If 
you cannot sing a song, tell a story or make a 
fire. If you cannot drive the horses, you can 



68 Easy Lessons are Given Out 

give them water; if you cannot paint a coach, 
yon can grease an axle. If yon cannot hatch 
chickens, you can at least put the eggs in the 
nest. 

And never fret. Take things coolly. .Do not 
get mad at the very moment of all others when 
you should hold your temper. Do not be in too 
great a hm-ry. Judgment-Day will not be till 
your name is called and you answer to it. Did 
you ever think of that ? ^N'o matter of how little 
importance or how indefinite you are, the show 
will not be opened until you are duly cared for 
and seated. Green fruit makes people sick. Ill- 
gotten gains are green fruit. Never bite at the 
bare hook. Do not jump into all sorts of traps, 
dead falls, and snatch-holes, merely to please some 
one who delights in torture. Never go in bath- 
ing merely to give some shore-walker a chance 
to steal your clothes. Do not make love to a 
girl just to hear her sigh as she lays her head 
against your watch-pocket. Don't kiss babies 



Ecisy Lessons are Given Out. 69 

merely to please the mother ; nor would it be 
advisable, Yalter, to kiss the mother to please 
the baby, for the husband might be looking from 
around some corner. There are several things 
you should not do. Do not believe that keeping 
a canary makes of a woman a lady. Do not be- 
lieve that every girl who smiles on you is in love 
with you. Girls smile on a fellow as roosters 
crow — because others do. Do not be in too great 
haste to marry. Thin ice never keeps. A few 
years of happiness is better than several years of 
misery. Do not give to every one who asks. 
Some men, like rat-traps — never give back. 
Don't make up your mind that you know every- 
thing, for there is much of value not yet win- 
nowed from the chaff of passing events. But 
keep your eyes open and the point of your gun 
well up. Better shoot over than under. Better 
a curve than a slant. 





CHAPTEE IX. 

The Evening Star. 

I ERE, by the blazing fire, while the 
bitter cold wind goes howling, 
shrieking by, is room for many a 
friend I could name, who never 
will sit around on the wide hearth as of yore. 
I have been out in the wind and cold five 
hours — five short hours — sleigh-riding. The 
flecks on the jet-black coat of my horse, the long 
frosted* whiskers he sported, the creaking of the 
snow, the deserted look of the farm-houses we 
passed, the haste with which kind hands opened 
the door on returning, tell me it is cold without ; 
but I did not feel it. Two of us were out riding. 



The JEvenmg Star. 71 

A fast horse, warm plank for the feet, warm 
robes, merrj bells, warm hearts, handsome cutter, 
and smooth road never yet froze a man in five 
hours, nor do I believe they ever will. 

We went out into the country by the old 
church, the little school-house, the old cider-mill, 
the country store and the post-ofiice, the smithy's 
shop, and into the broad yard where often we 
have driven out and in. Fifteen years since we 
rode out from that wide-opening gate, and, if you 
like, I will tell you of that ride. 

It was a clear moonlight night — clear and 
cold. There was a party of us. We had no bells 
other than the rustic lelles, whose beauty has 
never been surpassed. We had no superabund- 
ance of wolf-skin robes — we had no lio:ht- 
running cutter or extra-fast horse, as to-day ; 
but we had six warm hearts. Oh ! it was fan 
— sleigh-riding in those days ! A long sleigh- 
box on two bobs, straw enough to make the 
hearts of half-a-dozen poor ianiilies glad — and 



72 The Evening Star. 

down in there we all sat. There were boys and 
girls fifteen years since — now there are young 
men and young ladies. How cosily we nestled 
together in that old sleigh ! How cosily each 
boy's arm encircled one. How the heart shot 
out its feelers to clasp itself around and protect 
that one — ^loved more than others. How the 
heart warms, expands, and rises into the throat 
now as that old picture is called up ! Away we 
went ! Some one said as we started, " Be care- 
ful, boys, and don't upset," but little heed was 
paid to. the caution. How cold the night was 
fifteen years since ! Perhaps you remember it — 
it seems as if you must remember. Nestled to- 
gether in that good old sleigh, how we glided 
over the beaten track, and how our hearts glided 
into (mother beaten track ! Then, when the cheeks 
of those we loved grew cold, we used to warm 
them — ^no matter how. Then, fifteen years since, 
lest others would hear the kindly spoken thanks, 
we took them from the lips of the speaker, and 



The Emning Star. T3 

closer drew the loved form. It was cold, but we 
felt it not ! On by the same houses as to-day we 
sped, and on sped our hearts, linking each to the 
other. How we laughed, as a sudden jolt would 
throw us all together ! How we laughed as the 
foot-balls came pelting our faces, and drew the 
hoods together and looked in to see if any one 
was hurt! It was fifteen years ago that sleigh- 
rides were worth taking, but that day has gone by. 
Then the snow was deeper — the roads smoother 
—the horses faster— the girls prettier— the boys 
better — and the nights shorter — than now. 

Then we rode up to the little grave-yard, where 
a few brown stones— no marble in those days- 
marked the last resting-places of those who had 
gone before us. We rode past the old church, 
where the congregation used to join in songs of 
praise. We stopped and talked among ourselves 
—six of us— who should first go into that yard 
never to retura. Still closer were the loved ones 
drawn, and still wanner beat the hearts beneath 



74 The Evening Star. 

GUI' homesjpmi suit of gray. We had laughed and 
talked on the way out, fifteen years ago, and as 
the team stood there bj that silent grave-yard, 
and a light cloud drifted over the moon, so did 
a cloud drift over our hearts. 

* ^ * -x- * * 

A year after that time, another party visited 
the little grave-yard. One of the six was going 
home. The sun shone forth coldly, as does the 
affection of some we call friends — to mock the 
scene. We went slower, fourteen years ago, than 
we did fifteen, but there were more of us. One 
of the six was riding alone, and no warm cheek 
could drive the cold from hers. The road was as 
smooth, but we drove more carefully. We passed 
the church without stopping — on to the little 
yard beyond. An open gate — a dark spot be- 
yond — a silent gathering about a grave — tears 
and sobs — a prayer — uncovered heads — a lower- 
ing of one of the six where no one could take the 
wishes of her heart from lips closed forever — a 



The Evening Sta/r. 75 

dull, heavy, rattling sound — a benediction — a re- 
turn. 

* * * -Jt -3^ * 

Fourteen years since, we drove home on that 
road slower than to-day — and fourteen years 
since, as night came on before home was reached 
a star arose in the east. Then I knew the soul 
of one I loved had gone home to God, and as 
pure a pearl as the sun ever saw had been set in 
a glorious crown. 

The sun has set many times since, but that 
star has never gone down. The sun has set 
in coldness — in warmth — ^in most glorious splen- 
dor — and even shut itself out from us for days 
together; but I always see that star, and it is 
always the same as was the soul of her who felt 
no more fear, when called home, than when 
riding in that old family sleigh fifteen years 
since. 

****** 

Still there ! I have been out to look upon 



76 



The Evening Star. 



it, and now, as fifteen years since, that star is 
just above the hill, as bright as ever — and the 
church is the same — and the old preacher the 
same — and the night the same — and the sky 
the same — and my heart the same, but too sad 
to write more. 




CHAPTEE X. 



In which Disappointment is Favorably Mentioned. 




I HEY went out in darkness, Yalter. 
And life is often thus. 

" Wlio went out in darkness ? " 
The sparks, my boj. Standing 
on the hurricane deck, we saw from the tall 
chimneys, thousands of golden, living, warm, and 
earnest sparks leaving the dark mouths of those 
huge iron lungs, and joyously riding the breeze. 
They came into the world as man comes — they 
rode to then- eternity just which way the breeze 
drove them, as man rides — each by itself. From 
the clear and calm depths of the water over 



78 BisappoinPment Favorably Mentioned. 

which we glided, there came a counterpart — a 
wife for every spark wafted off frora above us. 
Mirrored in its glassy surface — seeming as they 
floated to be romping children of the stars ; up 
from the deep reflection came the golden shadows. 
Borne down by their own weight, to meet their 
brides, sank the burning sparks — closer and 
closer — nearer and yet nearer came substance 
and shadow — the real and the ideal. They met 
as lovers meet, midway 'twixt heaven's reflection 
and heaven itself — a kiss — a low, speaking kiss 
— a wedding of Life mth Hope — and into the 
dark water ; borne on to a common eternity ; a 
cmder floated — the spark was dead, and the swift- 
darting reflection was gone forever. And, my 
boy, as the spark wedded on the " river of death " 
and died, so do we all. We float, as it were, idly 
over the terrible reality — some reflection of our 
own heart meets us — an intervalic kiss — a wed- 
ding even in death, and lifeless float loved and 
loving on to the broad Hereafter. Stand on the 




•' Many a loved child has divided its sweet kiss— half to 
the earnest mother who brought it here from God— half 
to the waiting angel who took it UoMK:'—Pcfge 79. 



Diswppointmsnt Favorably Mentioned. 79 

steamer's deck at midnight, my boy, and see the 
breeze-riding sparks wed their golden reflections 
in disappointment. Watch one darting shadow 
— learn a lesson. 

So do you and us, Yalter. The rose of antici- 
pation often rests at last in the ashes of sad real- 
ity. Disappointment is our common lot. Many 
an egg fails to mother a bird. Many a flower dies 
while yet a bud, as promising as the plump form 
of youth. Full many a golden cloud has drifted 
into the dark homes of unborn storms and dis- 
appeared as do the castles of dreamers. Many a 
loved child has divided its sweet kiss — half to 
the earnest mother who brought it here from 
God — half to the waiting angel who took it home 
to a heaven of joy, there in the spirit-land to 
wait and bless with the fruition of angelic love the 
tired heart it fled from— to dry forever the tearful 
eyes of maternal fondness. From the coffin of 
disappointment often rise golden realizations, as 
beautiful butterflies are born of ugly caterpillars. 



80 Disappointment FoAiorahly Mentioned, 

Many a man has before now dived deep into 
the sea of business or matrimonial life, but no 
pearls rewarded his dangerous risk. Hearts have 
wedded shadows — have wedded icebergs — have 
wedded sorrow — have wedded anguish ; the chil- 
dren of each being disappointment. Millions of 
meteors flash athwart the distant sky, and leave 
but space. Many a man is ])y Time shot into 
Eternity, the target of lifj not penetrated in its 
remotest corner. Thousands of flowers are 
crushed under the foot of man and die alone. It 
is disappointment — but next season^ the life-hold- 
ing root sends into the world a bud which blos- 
soms with such fragrance that invisible spirits 
protect it. The disappointment of last year is 
the blessing of the present. The soul of the 
plant turned back to renewed effort and richer 
rewards, and the pearly blossoms came again to 
deck the bride or vigil the corpse. 

This world is full of disappointments, my boy ; 
and it is overflowing with stern realities. Wishes 



Disajppointment Favorably Mentioned. 81 

are born in our hearts and their children beget 
disappointments as the wind begets moans. 
Some are for good — some evil. Time alone 
can tell. Go back on memoric paths, and see 
how often disappointment has brought disappoint- 
ment ! Many a time has the heart of childhood 
wept over sorrow which proved the chrysalis of 
happiness. Many a tear-wet pillow at night has 
been the resting-place of joy in the morning. 
Many a cavern of sadness has been the ante- 
chamber to happiness richer than dreams ever 
brought us, Yalter. Many a fit of sickness has 
been the renewing of Life's great policy, and 
from many a grave has there gone into the world 
again, a freed and loving heart, trembling within 
its own silence with the sight of some distant 
dove bringing a new lease of life — a chapter of 
joys, with sorrows and repinings omitted. Many 
a cold wind has blown away the heart miasma, 
though its blasts piped right merrily for a time, 
and we trembled at the storm whicji brought us 

4* 



82 Diswppointment Fa/vorahly Mentioned. 

the sun. We are all born to trouble, Yalter, my 
boy. In every heart is a safe — God knows where 
the key is. In every heart is some secret of life 
or death. In the life of every man, morn, noon, 
and night are marked with disappointment. It 
is the grave of events from w^hich spring and 
grow vigorous deeds. Peace follows war, as 
shadows follow the sun. The thicker the ice, 
the deeper must have been the water. The 
longer lasts the winter, the more rapidly comes 
the sun which starts anew the frozen cuiTent. 
Disappointments are the lessons of life. They 
are its dark backgrounds which set forth the 
most lasting and beautiful pictures. Life is a 
forest. In it, are dead trees and living ones. 
The one give shade — let us rest under their pro- 
tecting branches. Sorrow makes the heart bet- 
ter. Disappointments renew our love. The 
impeded river stops not forever, but finds a new 
current, and like the flashing of His anger, rushes 
on with new force. Wliat if von have been dis- 



Disappointment Favorably Mentioned. 83 

appointed? Others have been. All may look 
cold to-day — it will not so look to-morrow. 
Often, my boy, the deepest sorrows have brought 
the choicest blessings — the sickness of Hope 
proved the convalescence of Joy. Many a ghost 
has proved a shadow — many a dreaded lake, the 
suspended mirage — many a mountain but a bank 
of fog. Do not sit in the cold, my boy. Rest 
only where happiness or success is beside you. 
The grave is but the reception-room to heaven, 
dreary though it seem. Life often ends in disap- 
pointment, but it can end in happiness. Do not 
stop to regret the past. Let the dead bury the 
dead — look ahead — to future scenes. Sorrow is 
sent to make us purer — trouble to make us better 
— disappointment to increase our bravery. Never 
give up. I^Tever say fail ! Kever be discour- 
aged. Failure is the servant and success the 
child of effort. Look up. Look to the future — of 
this life ; of the coming one. Your heart may be 
the cemetery of a thousand disappointments — 



84: Disofpjpomtment Favorably Mentioned. 

there is room yet for leafy-boughed success to 
spring from and around every grave ; making 
the blessed futm-e a labyrinth of bowers — a wil- 
derness of joy — an ocean of prosperity — a heaven 
of heartfelt bliss. 




i^^^P^^:^ 



mm: 



CHAPTER XI. 




Wherein-Common-Sense is Entitativb. 

[ALTER, my boy, it is a good thing 
there are none. 
"None— what?" 
Windows to the lieart, my boy. 
Little do we know what prompts man to action. 
The grass comes nodding and kissing — ^now bent 
low with tears — then standing proudly erect — 
carpeting the earth with loveliness. The tiny 
sprouts are much like the human heart. Each 
blade has its own mission — its own dewy tears to 
shake off — its own handsome green to make 
itself beautiful. When one shoot is cut down, 



86 Common- Sense Entitat/ive. 

another one springs forth — in time, and no other 
blade waits its growth. It is so, my boy, with 
the hnman heart. Kone of us know why one is 
happy and another miserable. It is well we do 
not. It is a good thing we have no windows, for 
then we should be so busy looking in upon the 
secrets and sorrows of others, that our own would 
be opened to the world, as the clouds are thrown 
out in relief by the glorious sunset. We all have 
aims. All have motives. All have causes for 
joy — for tears — for smiles — for sobs — ^for hopes — 
for actions. What if the causes are not published 
— none the less do they exist. 

There is not a heart, my boy, but has its inner 
chamber, the key of which has been given to God. 
There is not a heart but has its grave of hopes, 
although the foliage of time may have hidden it 
from the world, and almost from our own sight. 
Many a one you and we condemn God pities — 
many we pity He condemns. Let us have common 
sense, my boy, and attend to our own matters. IN^o 



Common-Sense Entitative. 87 

one cares for another's trouble. The only headache 
we are sorrj^ for, is the one on our own shoulders. 
The only wound we really care for, is that which 
pains our mother's child. People never care for 
other people. As boys whistle when passing a 
grave-yard in the night, so do men talk of others 
to hide their own troubles. It is true, my boy, 
that when you and we do well, others are jealous, 
or envious. 

Be liberal, my boy. If not with money, with 
kindness. Little do you know why the heart of 
yonder man is sad. God knows, and that will 
do. People will seldom inquire into another's 
troubles, with good motives. The world hunts 
for sorrows as boys hunt the garret for balls to 
knock about and see them bound. If you have a 
ball and do not wish it knocked — ^keep it out of 
sight. That, Yalter, my boy, is true philosophy. 
If you have trouble — fight it. If you don't 
kill it, it will kill you. Life is short. Be a man, 
and leave the rest to futurity. Praise that 



88 Common-Sense EntitaUve. 

which is good. Kone of us are perfect. What 
one does to-day another does to-morrow. Had 
you been in his or her place, you might, my 
boy, have done even worse. 

The world moves by day as well as by night. 
It moves while we are happy and while we are 
miserable, just the same. Let us have common- 
sense enough to be happy while we can, and 
not bother our heads or hearts with that which 
concerns us not except to do good. Give an opin- 
ion when it is asked. This world is badly mixed, 
my boy. When so many come rushing in to see 
the show or hear the concert, even "reserved 
seats " contain queer crowds. Tickets get mixed. 
People are huddled together regardless of pro- 
priety, and many are glad when the show is out. 
If all the big and little people in the world could 
be hived, and Avhen they thought no one was 
looking, you and we could peep in and see — what 
a sight ! Ii all our hearts were to be opened at 
noon, many a suicide would be chronicled at half- 



Common-Sense Entitative. 89 

past eleven — many a one would change his name 
at half-past twelve. Go slow, my boy. Do not 
form an opinion as you would fall out of bed. If a 
bridge carries you safe over, it is a good one. If 
it lets you fall through, do not lose time in cub- 
ing it, but try another. If riding in the cars be 
dangerous and you cannot take the risk, go afoot. 
If -the wagon rides roughly, jump out and walk. 
If riding in a ship makes you sea-sick, stay at 
home. If a friend did not treat you well the first 
time you called, you are a very foolish Yalter, 
my boy, to visit him again. If tobacco makes you 
sick, eject it, and do not give others spasms by 
making wiy faces. If the coat does not fit you, 
get one that will, or go without. Do not fret, and 
bother, and woriy, and stew, and grumble, and 
find fault, and haggle, and whine over your hard 
luck, but go in your shirt-sleeves. If the weather 
be cold, exercise. If it be warm, who wants a 
coat? 

Don't be inquiring into other people's affairs 



90 ComrnKm-Sense Entitative. 

at all — much less when you have affairs of your 
own. If you have business, attend to it. If you 
have none, the business of others should not con- 
cern you. If you cannot take a trick, throw 
up your hand — if fish will not bite, look for an- 
other stream, or quit that kind of sport. 




^^^^^^^m&:: 



CHAPTER XII. 



In which we Speak about Pluck. 




|ALTER, my boy, what do you con- 
sider as God's best gift to man ? 
" Woman, of course." 
Well — that is very good ; but as 
woman is never given to man without his win- 
ning her, there is something else. 
"Money?" 

Ko, my boy — the root of evil is hardly a 
good gift, as it is the source of more misery 
and trouble than happiness. 
"Good looks?" 
Wrong again, my boy. Good looks, as the 



92 We Speak about Pluck. 

world speaks, fade, wither, and die. Handsome 
infants seldoln make handsome adults — time 
works too many changes. The inner beanty of 
the soul which shines and radiates as trouble 
and sorrow gather around the heart, is seldom 
seen by the world. But there is a gift which 
is always noticed. And that bestowment is 
Pluck. Give us that, and all else follows. With 
a brave heart none need fail. What if you fall 
once, twice, twenty, or a hundred times ? Pluck 
will pick you up, and each time nerve your heart 
for a greater effort. Life is a succession of hills 
and valleys. They rise before us, my boy, in all 
matters of existence. In love, wealth, ambition, 
success or power, it is up here — down yonder. 
Look around and see for yourself who it is 
that succeeds. Not the timid one, who at 
sight of the first obstacle in his path loses heart 
and yields the game. ISTot the man whose nerve 
will not keep his upper lip and under jaw in 
place. Not the man who gives up on the first 



We Speak about Phtch. 93 

trial. These men do not succeed. Success often 
sports with a man as a shy trout plays with the 
hook of the angler. Keep cool— be steady— stick 
to a regular business, and soon the nibble will 
end in a snapping bite, and you will land the 
wary prize safely at your feet. 

Pluck will do anything, my boy. It will win 
the girl you love. Not in itself, perhaps, but it 
will give you the qualities she admires. Women 
seldom wed men— they wed ideas. Pluck will 
fill your pockets with gold— but that is not the 
object of life. It will carve your way to emi- 
nence, and encircle you with friends who will pile 
the sod over your grave in sorrow — the heartfelt 
Bigh, telling, in eloquence beyond expression, the 
love they bore you. Keep a stiff upper lip, my 
boy. Failure is the rule— success the exception. 
A million men walk boldly up to the great 
object of life— and then have not the courage 
to take hold of it. A million others fail because 
the way seems so long— or the road is too rough. 



94t We Bpedk about Pluck. 

Others fail for fear they will not succeed. This 
life is a school, my boy. There are many lessons 
to learn. We have each a thousand objects — 
nine hundred too many — and flit from one to 
another, as the humming-bird dashes from bud 
to flower — and life is all frittered away before we 
know it. Have a purpose. Take aim. Shoot 
at something. Make a mark, if nothing but a 
dent in the mud. If you cannot run up the hill, 
climb it. If you cannot reach the top, go as 
high as possible — then pass just one man more. 
K you die — die game. If you sink, let it be in 
deep water. If you reach for a flower, take the 
best one. If you fail — ^get up like a man and 
try again. Children cry and whimper — ^leave 
off tears when you vote. 

The road may be rough, my boy, but whoever 
was made in the image of God should never say 
any road was too rough. Brambles may beset 
your path — ^make for the centre, as the hardest- 
pointed ones are those on picket duty. If you 



We Speak about Pluck. 95 

lack perseverance, have pluck to cultivate it. If 
you lack money, have pluck to earn it. If you 
lack credit, have pluck to be honest and to show 
people that you deserve confidence. If you lack 
position, have pluck to begin at the bottom of 
the hill and work up. The apex is broad enough 
for all who have the daring to struggle upward 
to it — and so distant that few ever reach it. If 
you lack decision of character, have pluck enough 
to keep away from temptation. If you have no 
umbrella, do not stand around in the rain. If 
the monosyllable " no " is a good word to use — 
have pluck to speak it plain and distinct. Never 
choose the road that is the shortest, if the other 
one is better. Never fail to satisfy your own 
heart — others will be satisfied in time. 

Straw men are never fit for anything except to 
fool crows from a cornfield. The men who build 
railroads, steamboats, factories, and cities, are 
never cowards. The man who succeeds in any- 
thing, is he who has pluck. And that little 



96 We Speak about Pluck, 

word, my boy, has a powerful meaning. It signi- 
fies something more than bull-dogism, and yoii 
can study it out at leisure. Never despair. 
A thousand dark and rainy mornings have ended 
in the most glorious sunsets. Many an almost 
impenetrable swamp has but stood sentry to a 
golden land beyond. Many a cloud has passed 
over, and left behind it a clear sky. Many a can- 
non has been fired without a ball in it. Many a 
mountain has proved but a mirage. Have a 
heart for every fate. If in hard luck — it might be 
harder. And then Yalter, my boy, you will suc- 
ceed. Pluck is the genii whose resources are 
limitless — whose power is magic. Pluck first — 
luck afterward. With the first, all else will 
follow. 







CHAPTEE XIII. 



Knitting. 




)-DAY, I have been looking at a 
knitting-machine. It is a mar- 
vellous invention — able to knit a 
stocking in four minutes ! I don't 
like it. It is an infringement, and should not be 
tolerated. Years ago, before gray hairs began 
to show themselves on my head, there was 
another knitting-machine I loved to watch. I 
can look back the narrow lane of life and see it 
now. I can see an old brown house, surrounded 
by fruit-trees and lilacs. I can see in it, by the 
old-fashioned hearth, which was warmer then 



98 Knittmg. 

than now — even like the hearts of men — a fair 
and good woman. I can see her sitting there of 
a winter night, by the light of a pine knot, 
winding yarn from the ball, and shaping it into 
stockings, as we wind yarn from the ball of 
life, and shape it into good or bad fitting 
actions. Her needles used to click, click, click, 
as regular as the beatings of a heart close by, 
beside of mine, in another room. They were 
happy days then. Life looked brighter then than 
now. Her knitting was even as was her life ; and 
warmer than the lamb's-wool stockings she knit, 
was the heart that smiled — when to others that 
were poor she gave. I nsed to sit in the adjoin- 
ing room, Saturday nights, and sit there hours 
after the good old lady had put up her knitting 
for the night. Another sat beside me. We 
listened to the click of the needles, to the 
beating of our hearts, to the chirp of a cricket — 
apt cricket — on the hearth ; and later in the 
evening, to the wliistle of the whippoorwill in 



Knitting. 99 

the grove below. We were knitting. We gazed 
forth on nature, and talked of the present. We 
sat hand in hand, and looked at the stars and 
the future, and wondered why people were not 
always happy. Earlier in the evening, before 
the good old lady had quit work, softly indeed 
must be the kiss, gently sealed on the pure 
brow of her beside us, that she did not hear. 
We were all happy then but her. Now in 
heaven she is at rest, while the occupants of the 
parlor in those days are longing for different and 
whiter yarn to knit from than they have. 

A marble slab— plain like his life, erect as was 
his walk — overshadowed by a close-limbed wil- 
low — as was his life by good deeds — its leaves 
beating back the burning rays of the sun — as 
his good actions had ever beat back calumny — 
marked well the little spot in the garden, more 
loved by the knitter than all other spots. Years 
before, a warm heart beat in unison with her 
own. Loving kisses were gently offered upon 



100 Knitting. 

her brow to the shrine of love and goodness, but 
now she stood in the front of her battle, alone. 
Once in a while would she drop a stitch, but 
oftener would she drop a tear, and the lip would 
quiver as if shaken by the winds of the past. 
At such times would I narrow, and knit the 
threads of life closer ; and yet closer would I 
draw that other heart to mine, wishing that some 
day my grave might be wet with as sacred dew 
as was the one in the garden. At times would 
the old lady unravel several rounds from her 
stocking, and at times would she unravel several 
years from her work of life, and strewing them 
about her feet, look them over, and then on 
bended knee gaiher them up, and offer them to 
the inspection of Him, above. Her work was 
approved; and as she came in to say "good- 
night," 1 know of two hearts that grew larger 
and warmer. But one day she lingered too long 
by the grave — ^the April air was too chill ; and 
well was it that the visit was a long one, as it 



Knittmg. 101 

was her last but one. When the heart is warm 
cold winds, or cold actions either, strike it the 
more severe, and the cold wind struck her. She 
gave lip her knitting ; the ball of yarn and of 
life were both used up at once, and her needles 
were laid away simultaneously with her last 
visit to the weeping willow. Always would her 
ball unwind clear to the centre — yarn all the 
way — no wad of paper, or chip, or walnut was 
used to start it over. So with her life. No 
black spot was found in the centre after she was 
gone ; and not greener grows the willow to-day 
than is the memory of that good woman. 

Time flew slower then than now. A stocking 
was not made in four minutes, as to-day. Hearts 
were not as deeply located then as at present. 
Life had more of sweet, and less of bitter, though 
a bitter di'aught came ; and a score of years have 
not taken from me the taste. Another form was 
laid under the willow ; and all the bright spots I 
had looked upon in the future, vanished, never to 



102 



Knitting, 



return. I would like to step back to those days, 
but 'tis better to hasten on. The spmt-world is 
large, and some one is ever waiting, inside the 
golden gate, for the loved and left. I don't like 
knitting. I don't like to see stockings turned off 
by machinery the same as persons live and love. 





CHAPTEE XIY. 

We Walk in the Cold, and Pity where OxHERa 
Condemn. 

|ALTEE, my boy, draw close the 
garments and walk briskly, till we 
reach some spot where the cold 
wind whistles not so fiercely. It is 
a cold— yes, a bitter cold morning. The smoke 
hates to leave warm chimneys, and, my boy, 
yon ^dll see that it actually refuses to leave 
where there is no fire—waiting to be warmed ! 
The little snow-birds sit on fences, and look 
puffy-hke, as does a narrow-souled man sporting 
a military uniform. How the foot wakens the 
sleeping frost-king, and creaks with crispness 



104 We Pity where Others Condemn. 

every time the quick-stepping foot rests on the 
crumbling snow! On the windows of all the 
houses, the workmen of Zero have worked with 
subtle fingers, and left their delicate tracings. 
Ah ! my boy, how feeble is man — ^how ignorant — 
how weak ! It is cold, my boy, very cold. 

Did you ever stop to realize how little love 
there is in this great world of ours ? People never 
care for others half as mucli as they pretend to. 
Even in summer they are very cold, with blood 
at fever heat. Their hearts will freeze spirits! 
"We have a few friends, but never love them half 
as much as we ought, or profess to. "When we 
pick the berries from a bush, how qaick we leave 
it ! Perhaps the warm sun and blessed light may 
ripen other berries there, and then how we scram- 
ble for them, no matter what other beautiful 
shrubs, prettily growing, are trampled to death ! 
People are too selfish — too cold. Yet such is na- 
ture ; and there is, perhaps, but little use in war- 
ring against it. 



We Pity where Others Condemn. 105 

Now Yalter, my boy, did you ever notice how 
soon some people will leave their best friends 
when in trouble ? And how they will slander, 
abuse, and libel the unfortunate, lest some one 
should think they were once friends ? If a man 
fails in business, through misfortune, how people 
shun him! If a strong man is tempted more 
than he can bear, and falls, how few friends who 
will encourage him to rise again ! Society is a 
queer god. It is a very hollow, deceitful thing. 
Yet we all follow its dictation, as slaves follow 
a master they both dread and despise. If a girl 
falls, how her sex — ^her angelic sex even — desert 
her, and let hunger, disease, and death take her 
hence, unwept and uncared for save by those 
who are like her, carrying the hell of wanton 
dissipation forever within their cruelly wronged 
hearts. No matter how dearly we once professed 
to love, too often the least breath of trouble will 
drive us all from where once was happiness, and 

the heart will grow, oh ! so cold ! If a person is 

5* 



106 We Pity where Others Condemn. 

going on foot, people seldom care to be company 
through the journey ; but if he rides in a car- 
riage better than our own, we are very willing to 
sit beside him. 

" Don't like such friends ! " 

Well, Yalter, my boy, such are too often the 
only friends we have. Few are the hearts which 
will stand the pressure of misfortune. Few are 
the friends who will stick like a brother till life 
has gone hence — few are the hearts which sym- 
pathize with the sorrow of those they once pro- 
fessed to — perhaps did — love. Few are the men 
or women who cannot be bought away, or bribed 
away from those they once said they would share 
the last dollar with, or, if called upon, to lay 
down life for. Once in a while, such a person 
is found. We know those whom trial only 
strengthens, whom trouble only helps, whom 
sorrow only makes more loving — more willing — 
more generous — more noble — more kind and 
good. But there are few, and only those whose 



We Pity where Others Condemn. 107 

hearts have suft'ered more cruel pangs than the 
world knew of — whose life had become darkened 
— whose heart, long lost, had at last been found 
by one who could love, cherish, and, without 
jealousy or mistrust, appreciate the love it gave, 
the sacredness of its devotion — the strength of 
its purpose, and who would know how true it 
beat in unison with kindred feeling. 

The style of the world, my boy, is to hitch on 
to those who are going np — to cut loose from 
those going down. It is fashionable to desert 
persons when misfortune has overtaken them — 
when others are deserting them, even without 
cause — to hit the under man in the fight. If 
trouble, sorrow, remorse, or affliction have so- 
bered a man's face, or dressed him in coarser 
clothes, everybody shuns him, because a cold, 
heartless, hollow, unfeeling world claps its hands 
and urges on the chase. Yes, my boy, there is 
more in this world that is cold than the weather. 

In heaven, they say, everybody loves. IsTot 



108 We Pity where Others Condemn. 

as the bridegroom loves his bride — as the warm- 
hearted girl whose eyes are deeper than the 
azure of heaven — whose heart is wrapt up in, 
and lives only for one she worships — ^not as the 
libertine loves — not as the depraved and unfeel- 
ing love, but as the infant loves the mother on 
whose heart its delicate ear listens for the coun- 
ter-ticking of its own life — as we love the good 
and noble here below. Yalter, my boy, that is 
a blessed Hope then. Even if eternity is to 
be devoted to labor, it will be too short, if 
love be the reward. And, my boy, how great 
and wondrous the change before many are fit 
to enter there! Many Christians, as they call 
themselves, are not prepared for such bliss. 
They may profess before men — may deceive 
some with their long faces, but they are too 
cold to ever know the happiness in store for 
those whose hearts are ever warm and generous. 
Biting frost is disagreeable, my boy, but there 
is something colder. We may feel cold toward 



We Pity where Others Condemn. 109 

some — who can help destiny? The severest 
frost is that of the heart, and how desolate the 
blight where hope has fled — where love has 
gone ! Yet, my boy, there is happiness in learn- 
ing who are false— who are true friends. But- 
terflies leave the jessamine when its flowers 
begin to fall, but the little wren builds her nest 
underneath, and beneath its shelter rears her 
young, nor leaves it until ready for another 
home far away. 






CHAPTER XY. 

Wherein the Use or Eyes is Looked Over. 

|ALTER, my boy, the road we are 
travelling day after day, to and 
from our regular place of business, 
is one so well known that a blind 
man could walk it — if he only knew all the 
crooks, turns, broken planks, holes, and dangers 
therein. But there is another road, my boy, 
to walk safely over which needs eyes. E^ot dead 
eyes, covered by carelessness as plants are covered 
by newspapers and other sheets to guard them 
against frost, but live eyes, which register as fast 
as the impression is received. There is the 



The Use of Eyes Looked Over. IH 

physical walk through life and the spiritual walk 
to eternity. Not one man in twenty knows what 
his eyes were made for. Optics are like trotting 
horses — the best-trained ones get over the most 
ground. The vision of some people points in- 
wardly, no matter where it starts from. One 
man walks heedlessly along and stumbles from a 
steamboat. Another jumps from one car to an- 
other, and, because he could not see danger, 
foolishly becomes a candidate for a hearse and 
sextonical orders. Another man walks along 
the road — stubs his toe, and then picks himself 
up, looking very foolish and afraid some one saw 
his downfall. A lady with silk and satin well 
arranged and displayed on her fair form, is so 
intent on winning eyeshots from some loaferish 
crowd that she runs against dry-goods boxes, 
rubs against door jambs or awning posts, and 
rends her di-ess or daubs its smooth folds with 
close-sticking paint. Another person, my boy, 
is always late at the cars — late at church — ^late 



112 The Use of Eyes Looked Over. 

everywhere, because he does not see how time 
flies. 

Eyes were given us for a wise purpose. "We 
have two of them. That means sometliing, my 
boy. And they have an outer reflection and an 
inner one. Your eyes are young yet. They 
will bear much training. Teach them what to 
do, my boy, and well will they perform. Not 
that you must speak of all they see or what they 
gather in. The little brain-pictures they photo- 
graph wiU, if preserved, make an abundant stock 
in trade for any person. Eyes are wealth to one 
who has learned his trade. 

And there is much to see with the inner eye. 
We will walk along slow, and learn. You, Yal- 
ter, my boy, may see the pictures we have saved. 

The man who is always late at business never 
wiU be wealthy unless by accident. The woman 
who hangs invisible weights to her chin when- 
ever talking to her husband — whose welcoming 
smiles are convex, with acidulated edges, never 



The Use of Eyes Looked Over. 113 

adds over-much to her store of happiness. "Well 
trained eyes see much of this. They see wives 
smiling on every one, except their husbands. 
This is a sad picture — with more of misery for a 
background than the world, with all its smart- 
ness, ever sees. And, my boy, there are men 
whose laughs, songs, jests, and anecdotes are 
given liberally outside their family. Good eyes 
will see the reason — poor eyes will not notice — 
medium eyes will wonder at the fact. And there 
are men who go on from year to year, betraying 
confidence — selling friends — dishonoring trusts 
reposed in them — abusing the sacred ties of 
friendship — swindling their own hearts — blunt- 
ing and wearing down the fine edges of con- 
science — ^liberally planting death or disease in 
their frames — retrograding from the goal of lofty 
ambition and honorable purpose. Their eyes 
only see to-day — to-morrow is beyond the scope 
of their vision. And, my boy, there are eyes of 
men which fall in love with small feet — with red 



114 The Use of Eyes Looked Over. 

cheeks — with a certain colored eye — with a cur. 
or ringlet — with a style of dancing — ^witji a 
machine-made smile — with a white neck or with 
hills of snow, summit-finished with living vio- 
lets. All these things in themselves are vanities, 
my boy. The purchase made for one of these 
beauties wears like plaster-of-Paris statuary — 
soft, hollow — light, and certain to turn a dingy 
shade. Small feet may be cut oif by car^ or dis- 
torted with rheumatic pains. Red cheeks may 
thank French saucers, severe pinching, drugs, or 
disease, for an existence. The fancy eye, unless 
the heaven-born love-light burns well and steady 
therein, is more dreaded to look upon than a 
battle-field. The curl which electrified you, as it 
fell down upon your face, or just touched your 
neck by accident, may have been made by bar- 
bers' tongs, or may be driven away by fever. 
People do not always dance, my boy. Machine 
Bmiles are like Barlow knives — fit for children 
only. The white neck married by gas-light may 



The Use of Eyes Looked Over, 115 

show better in two hours after the ceremony on 
a colored cloth than on the beautiful veins so 
freshly playing under the skin below. The lit- 
tle hills of snow may be colder than' Alpine gla- 
ciers — may disappear like articles in the hands 
of a magician, or friendship when adversity 
comes, or from causes which follow effect, and 
the violets thereon will become, like paper 
flowers, misshapen and odorless. All these single 
pictures, which catch the glance of surface-seek- 
ing eyes, make poor anchors to drag on, while 
riding out the dark hours of life. 

And, Yalter, my boy, there are eyes of women 
which look not beyond the shade of their lashes 

^which but glance at the column of figures 

without noticing the footings. And the footings 
of figures and the footings of life are much the 
same. Large or small, as set in proper places. 
These eyes see only a nice pair of whiskers — a 
soft hand— a neat instep— a curly head of hair 
— a gold watch and seal — a swaggering gait— 



116 The Use of Eyes Looked Over. 

a broadclotli case ftdl of style. And, my boy, 
wedlock gives good women whose greatest fault 
is poor eyes, to these men — as you and us for 
want of better places hang our coats on dead 
limbs, our hat on the door-knob, our watch 
on a gimlet bored into the wall, or throw a vest 
on a bunch of thistles. 

We all have a long walk ahead. A very 
long walk, my boy, and you nor us know just 
when the gate will open and we shall step forth. 
And, my boy, light will be our dress — few the 
suits. And as we walk down the path which 
leads from the shore of the dark river, how 
much will we see which now escapes observa- 
tion ! The road walked in life will be walked 
again, and thousands of little things now un- 
noticed will stand forth like sentinels. And, my 
boy, you and us will wonder why our eyes never 
beheld their index fingers, guiding right or left. 
Plain will they be then. Large will grow our 
eyes as that new path is walked; its beauties 



The Use of Eyes Looked Over. 117 

and deformities now unnoticed, made manifest 
— each knoll of sorrow, or bower of happiness, 
marked by sighs or thrills of joy, forgotten, un- 
noticed, or uncared for. 

As we walk down that path, the eye will drink 
in the whole of God's scenery thickly studded 
with man's actions ; and the black smoke of 
regret will too often smother out the incense 
of happy memories. 

Then, many a man will see where his bark 
of happiness was wrecked, and wonder why he 
did not use his eyes before. There will be mil- 
lions of reefs, rocks, and shoals to be seen, over 
and by which we all have run. Men will see 
the skeletons of their hopes of happiness hang- 
ing exposed to every wind — to every remark — 
to every eye. They will hang on cold snow- 
hills — on waving curls — on diamond-girted fingers 
— on red cheeks — on hollow accomphshments ; 
traps set in life by deceit, to catch victims for 
remorse. The wine-cup and wassail bowl will 



118 The Use of Eyes Looked Over, 

lie thick along that path, and in each will be 
the anchored skeleton of some manly heart — 
some noble soul. You and us, my boy, will 
then see on what hollow and worthless reeds 
we have leaned for suppoi't — on what cold 
hearts we have some time or other laid our 
hopes — on what uncongenial spirits we have 
lavished affection. We shall see, my boy, where 
often in life we failed — we shall see warning 
posts now unnoticed, but none the less there. 
Yes, Yalter, my boy, that day will be a busy 
one for the eyes, and happy will be he who 
looks well about him here. There is so much 
work to do. All not done in the forenoon must 
be done in the afternoon. There will be new 
mating and unmating then ; new aims and new 
objects, for we shall see aright. 

Let you and us, my boy, no matter how others 
use their eyes, keep ours open while awake, and 
day by day learn what they were given us for. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

In which we find Smiles among Tears, and Hap- 
piness WHERE WE HAD NOT LOOKED FOR IT. 




[EOPLE never know how to be happy, 
my boy. There is not one of God's 
living images but has anchored in 
his heart a boat which braves out, 
and tosses upon life's rough sea, waiting, as it 
rocks and pitches, for a full freight of happiness 
at some future day. That is the failure, Yalter. 
"We ever look ahead for some day, when care, 
trouble, and sorrow shall be banished. That day 
will never come on earth, my boy. We may look 
ahead — the morrow may be golden — till the mor- 
row comes. As we walk along this road, away 



120 Smiles among Terns. 

from the dusty city, you and us can talk quietly 
over these matters. "We can talk of little things 
unnoticed by those who are in great haste to 
finish this book for one they know not of. 

The tree which spreads its branches out as a 
mother holds her hands to the tottling infant, 
seeming to ask us to be seated under its leaves, 
looks inviting, but its trunk is covered with bugs 
and ants. The beautiful green leaf, which toys 
with the evening breeze, bears on its under sur- 
face insect cities which will hasten its fall. The 
limb above us is half decayed, though the foliage 
thereon is yet green and fresh. The little white 
stone at our feet, is the roof for ugly worms and 
beetles. The rose which laughs at its escape 
from yonder hedge — the rose which looks so 
sweet, has in its centre leaves a score of little 
bugs. The lovely dahlia, so beautiful in its deli- 
cately tinted hues, is without fragrance. The 
handsome oil painting, on close examination 
seems like a daub, made by amateur hands. The 




'' * * * As a lover hangs by one hand over the 
banister, to kiss the hps so sweet to \\\m:'—Page 121. 



Smiles among Terns. 121 

crimson cloud seemingly hanging from heaven 

to kiss earth, as a lover hangs by one hand over 

the bannister to kiss the lips'so sweet to him, are 

not different from the morning banks of fog, 

only as reflecting the sun's rays. The pearly 

stream singing by us is often roiled, and its bed 

is the home of reptiles. The finest hair of your 

head, my boy, is in reality like the cylinder to a 

thrashing-machine. The mysterious photograph, 

on close inspection, reveals all the imperfections 

on the face of the setter. The rustling silk has 

yawning stitches to mar its beauty. The wished- 

for country has its dark side — the thronged city 

knows more misery than pen or tongue can 

tell. 

On everything, my boy, the destroyer has set 

his seal. There is nothing perfect. Still we can 

make the most of what we have. We can walk 

along through life— passing by the dark scenes — 

lingering to-day by those of beauty, of joy and 

love. If to-morrow brings others, well and good. 
6 



122 Smiles wmong Tears, 

If not, the happiness we find to-day is clear gain. 
We must learn to take the bitter with the sweet. 
Eoses grow on brambles. Flowers of beauty and 
fragrance spring from the most neglected places. 
There is joy a^nd happiness everywhere, if we do 
not look for too much at a time. Some of these 
evenings, Yalter, you and us will sit quietly 
down, and by ourselves have a picture of happi- 
ness. Not now, my boy, but very soon. 

The morning sun is the most pleasant. Its 
hot, mid-day beams are not what we want. Full 
rays of happiness bring more misery along than 
we can endure. Let us be thankful for what we 
have, and all will be well. Enjoy the present — 
hope for the future. The hour may look dark — 
there is light beyond. Be happy while you can. 
When in the house, do not put your head out of 
the window, to see how hard the blast is piping. 
Keep still, and thank God you are safe for a mo- 
ment— if no longer. Borrow no trouble. It will 
be left at your door as fast as you wish to use it. 



seniles among Teo/rs. 123 

The iceman calls in the morning, and leaves the 
cold crystal, in small or large cakes, as yon use. 
Time leaves cakes, chunks, and blocks of trouble 
in the same way. Daily he leaves them. Ice is 
not colder — ice will not melt quicker, if you but 
leave it out of doors. If you have no use for 
trouble, do not go or send out for it, my boy. 
Let it lie and melt. Lie and melt is a good idea, 
Yalter. Let it waste itself in the ground — and 
in time, green will be the grass, rich and varied 
the flowers which will spring forth to be culled 
by your own hands. 

Every man is monarch in his own heart. In 
his own castle, the king can be safe — in his hut, 
the occupant can bar the door, and none but bid- 
den guests can enter. So can you and us do, my 
boy, with the door of our hearts. Admit none 
but friends — shut out trouble and be happy. 
We get the strength of tea by steeping, so do we 
feel the nightmare of sorrow by brooding and 
worrying over trouble, either real or imaginary. 



124 Smiles a/mong Tea/rs. 

Grief seldom kills — true friends never desert 
yon. Leeches quit when they have sucked their 
fill of blood. So, many friends desert you when 
they know your troubles. If you would ride safe, 
be your own driver. Never trust the reins with 
another. Then you can go singing on your way, 
and be happy. If you wish one to ride with you, 
ask not the first you overtake, except you know 
who it is. Perhaps you will wish to ride alone. 
Better go a thousand miles to find a friend than 
take in one who is not. 

Look around, my boy. Look ahead to the 
work of Kfe, with heart and nerve. Then all 
troubles vanish. Look back, and you will see a 
thousand incidents in life — now sacred to memory 
— then uncared for and almost unnoticed. They 
were moments of happiness studding the dome 
of life, as the golden-headed bolts stud the floor 
of God above us, and glisten in mysterious tremor 
while we sleep. We pass them daily, little heed- 
ing the fact, as the traveller passes parallels of 



Smiles among Tears. 125 

the meridian — to look back and see them far 
in the past. We can look back and see how- 
much we have missed in not knowing which 
were our happy moments — and, my boy, we can 
also in retrospect wonder and wonder how little 
troubles could have worried us so in the days 
or hours thereof. 

The trouble is, my boy — we think every one is 
happier than ourselves — more comforts by the 
family hearth than we enjoy ; while the truth is 
that not one in ten are as happy as ourselves, or 
get through the world with as little trouble. 
The breeze might have been a hurricane — the 
shower a hailstorm. The friends we at times 
lose were never good ones, or they would not 
fall oiF as do rose leaves, themselves worthless, 
while the pod with the germ of so many beauti- 
ful flowers remains. Yalter, just think, now, if 
you are not much happier than you thought you 
were. 







CHAPTEE XYII. 

A Short Talk about how to Get Along. 

|T always was and ever will be so. 
Life is tlie same unceasing battle 
to-day as it was yesterday, and, 
my boy, there is not the least bit 
of use in allowing youi'self to be discouraged. 
The darkest hour is just before day, in business 
as in time. 

There is always a silence, thick and oppressive, 
before a storm — a deathly stillness before a clap 
of thunder. There are times when the heart 
malaria sickens the whole man, and thought flies 
wild like a loosened kite. Every person will 



A Sho7't Talk about how to Get Along. 127 

have blue hours. Serve them as a dog serves 
drops of water — shake them off. Eun, walk, or 
crawl into the sunshine, and be happy. 

It does not take much, Yalter, my boy, to 
make a man rich. Gold will not do it. Bank 
stock will not do. Property stolen from the 
poor, ignorant, and unfortunate of earth will never 
bring a competency. Happiness never rides in 
such a carriage. Man can do anything. If you 
want a fortune, labor for it. If you wish influ- 
ence, there is but one way to get it. If you wish 
to lead, show your qualities. Do not be in a 
hurry. Leaders never drive. He who drives is 
in the rear. Success may seem a long distance 
ahead, but labor, wrapped in perseverance, will 
do everything. 

Look around us, Yalter, my boy, and see the 
rich earth — the carpet He gave all His crea- 
tures to walk on — the laughing, leaping, singing 
brook, which lover-like kisses the lips of its guide, 
and runs joyously on, sparkling and dancing 



128 A Short Talk about how to Get Along. 

for joy at the good it has done. See the deep 
woods — ^listen to the sounds of happy life therein 
— listen to the beautiful birds as they sing of 
love — look at the numberless flowers, sentinels of 
beauty — follow the deep shadows till they are 
lost in your own heart — look up — up — up, beyond 
the leafy roof, into the deep blue of heaven. 
Stand on the sea-shore — observe the millions of 
shells, once homes for wondrous life — watch the 
waves as they bring their white-capped offerings 
to your very feet — hear the sea-spirit sullenly 
moaning down the shore, and then think. 

God made all these. He fashioned the perfect 
dome and riveted it with myriads of golden bolts. 
In the night you can see them. All this He 
made out of nothing. He was never discour- 
aged. We are made in his image — all that he 
made is given us. Then why should we fail? 
Do not expect to centre the mark every time. 
Never worry if failure dares dispute the way. 
The strongest guards are always before the rich- 



A Short Talk about how to Get Along. 129 

est cities. The most difficult locks protect the 
richest treasures. 

Labor will win. The rose does not spring from 
chaos to the bosom of the bride. The ivy does 
not twine itself around the oak as the lightning 
writes its name around its shaggy sides. The 
modest four-o'clock, and the blushing morning- 
glory do not open their beauty to the world as a 
man opens his eyes after a hurried sleep. The 
golden grain does not spring from the earth as 
the Indian arrow flies from its tensioned bow — • 
but, like man, takes its allotted time. The girl 
you love will not say " yes " as a toad catches 
flies, the first time you ask her to share your life 
and lot — the ice does not melt as powder flashes 
- — the sun does not set as a candle drops into a 
well. 

Take time, my boy. Don't hurry too fast. Go 
slow, especially till you know the road, or be- 
come acquainted with your team. Be careful. 

Mark the rough, dangerous places you have 
6* 



130 A Short Talk about how to Get Along. 

passed, and shun them hereafter. One feather 
will not break a camel's back — bnt it will help. 
It is easy to succeed if you but will it. Make up 
your mind, and persevere. Mind your own busi- 
ness, Yalter, and then, my boy, you are happy. 
Don't stop to club whiffets — don't stop to retail 
gossip — don't stop to tell your secrets — but go 
on, minding your own business, leaving the 
question of reward, life, happiness, and heaven, 
with God. 

And remember, Yalter, my boy, that no one 
cares for you, on general principles. You are a 
good orange so long as society's children can 
squeeze juice out of you — no longer. People 
never care for your troubles — they have enough 
of their own. People are willing to give every 
one's property but their own. So with secrets. 
They will let yours loose, and keep theirs in the 
stable. And they always keep the nicest fruiu 
for home consumption — giving the poor that 
which they will not use themselves. And, 



A Short Talk about how to Get Along. 131 

Yalter, my boy, that is much the way they give 
advice — and while you eat, they laugh at your 
poverty and are disgusted with your appetite. 

Men sport with another's sorrows or troubles 
as a cat plays with a mouse — only sorry when 
death puts an end to the torment. Men care for 
you, my boy, as they care for a horse that kicks. 
If he lets fly, quick and sharp, they keep clear 
of his heels. 

Remember, my boy, man is a perfect machine. 
He is ready for life and its duties. God made us 
all correct. And His machines are not the ones 
to fail. Keep your pluck. Hold up your nerve. 
If others don't care for you, you are a double- 
headed fool to care for them. Help yourself— 
light your own lamp — make your own position — 
shoot your own gun — look out for yourself and 
keep a clear conscience — be independent, then 
let the world howl, laugh, or whine, as it pleases. 



CHAPTER XYIII. 



Fireside Musings, 




HERE is a great white counterpane 
of snow on the ground this Satur- 
day night. God's charity, covering 
a multitude of sins ! Would that 
human charity w^ould do thus — would whiten 
over the little bunnocks and ridges of life which 
can be removed from one place only to rise again 
in another ! The week just passed has been a 
short one. Too short for many a one to settle 
with himself, yet he has gone home. How time 
flies ! Has it always passed thus rapidly ? If all 
the Saturday nights God has ever given us were 



Fireside Musvngs. 133 

before us, what an array of crime would be seen ! 
Yet the day comes when they will all loom up with 
tlieir debits and credits to curse or bless. Do you 
ever pause to think, reader ? If so, pause again. 
If not, begin now. Draw your chair to the fire. 
Turn the light so that it will not hurt your eyes. 
Pull the curtain down at the corners. Listen ! 
A footstep on the creaking snow. Some laborer 
going to his loved ones. Weary and heart- 
tired — may God warm his little home with love ! 
Look back over the past week. It is not far. A 
room with seven folding doors ! Open all of 
them. Turn the rooms into a hall — look down 
its short walls and see in memory the pictm-es 
you have hung thereon. Another footstep ! 
How the boot creaks as the snow is crunched 
beneath its weight ! . Listen ! A lighter step. 
Some wife who is hastening home to greet her 
husband with the marketing for the morrow. 
Tired man. He sits and rests with Httle hands 
in his whiskers — little eyes peering into his — 



134 Fireside Musings. 

little heads on either shoulder — stars which rank 
him a major-general in the service of life ! Hold 
them closer — ^kiss them fondly to-night. Who 
but God knows which one wiU be in shroud, 
coffin, or grave ere another Saturday night comes 
round ? 

Another step ! The other way ! Some hus- 
band with heart full of ruined hopes going to 
revel at the beer table. Some foolish youth, 
swift stepping by, anxious to join the revel. 
Pitied husband. It was not thus a few years 
since. Who is to blame ? Let us, who know not 
the cares and shadows of the heart, do not that 
w^hich God has forbidden. Let us not condemn. 
He will reward and He will punish. The step 
dies away. Around the corner. So her hope 
dies away. So his heart-thoughts have died out. 
Why will he leave the home fireside this Sat- 
urday, over all others ? Home once had charms. 
The eye now so indifferent, once lit its way to 
his very soul. The lips now cold, except in 



Fireside Musvngs. 135 

petulancy, once put their full richness up to revel 
in the loved kiss. The tongue, which now 
speaks but to chide, once knew no language but 
that of love. It was many Saturday nights ago, 
perhaps — ^but it was once. Why go to-night? 
Is there not some little corner in the heart where 
the old love — the old hope — the old pleasure 
lingers ? Must you go to-night ? Once you 
would not have left for an hour. Who has 
poisoned the feast? Who has bittered the 
spring ? Talk it over this Saturday night. See 
who has shrouded the Pet and buried the Dar- 
ling of years agone. Go not elsewhere for hap- 
piness. It is not to be found in the wine-cup. 
The glass of poison does not contain it. The 
allurements of the gaming-table give no happi- 
ness. Eest this night. If you still love, sit 
beside each other — eye to eye, at times — hand 
upon or in hand, at times. Read to her or him 
you love. Eead this little chapter. It is kindly 
meant, even for those who differ from us. Look 



136 Fireside Musings, 

back and see how much happier you have been 
than you might have been — ^how much happier 
you might have been than you are. Do not 
blame. Do not chill the rivulet into an icicle. 

Good wife, do not let him go. Make home 
happy for your own sake. Give him love for 
love — ^kiss for kiss— confidence for confidence. 
Be to him as you were when you won him. Call 
back the glance, the word, the old caress — ^the 
electric touch, and sit down together to bless God 
that you have each other to love and live for. 
Let new resolves be born to-night. They may 
die before another one comes around, but give 
them birth. God sent us here to be happy. 
We live to make ourselves miserable. God 
gave us Saturday night for love and reflec- 
tion. He gave us the^ Sabbath for rest. He 
gave us six days for labor. And you, brother 
reader — comrade in life's battle, must you go 
from the home you have ? It may not be 
quite pleasant, but can you not help make 



Fireside Musings, 137 

it so? Save your earnings. Save your heart. 
Save your manhood. Keep faith with yourself. 
Give this night to rest — to-morrow for worship, 
and give to God a heartfelt blessing for the mer- 
cies you have, for some Saturday Night will be 
your last! 




CHAPTEK XIX. 




In which we Speak of the Roads, the Hearth 
AND Fender. 

ROUND the mountains — over hills 
— across plains more wearisome 
than toil in their monotony — 
through forests, deep, dark, and dis- 
mal — by pleasant homes and many-tongued 
groves — now smooth with turf-lined border — then 
rough and rugged with jagged rocks and rolling 
boulders, this roads winds its way. It ends some- 
where, my boy — not up a tree ; not on the brink 
of a yawning chasm ; not in some grand, awful 
and majestic ocean, whose wondrous depths 
nothing but the Omnipotent can fathom ; not in 



The Roads, the Hearth and Fender. 139 

little narrow, grave-like crevices. Yet it ends, 
mj boy. !N"ot abruptly and in a trackless blank, 
but, merging into some other road — the two be- 
coming one — the identity of each is lost, and 
this, in turn, loses itself in still another — each 
one more beaten and travelled than the one we 
now are on. Yalter, this road is typical of life. 
There are in man's brief existence cross-roads — 
hopes running into ours — our hopes and plans 
running into others — all forming a spider-like 
web of events, reaching far and wide. As the 
idle boy loosens one thread of the line web of the 
morning spider, from some stake or bush — so 
does time and fate loosen a friend here — a friend 
there — but the falHng thi-eads catch on other 
points, and the beautiful web is upheld, repaired, 
and enlarged. 

And, my boy, when life is over, it is not over. 
The track becomes a path — the path a byway ; 
the byway a lane ; the lane a road ; the road a 
street. The road of life does not end in a grove 



140 The Boads, the Hearth and Fender, 

— it does not lose itself in the top of some bluff 
— in some dark chasm — ^but merges into and 
weds another life. More busy yet than this. We 
step from the path into the road — ^the path we so 
hated to leave — it is done in a moment, and we 
are amazed at the beauties bordering our new 
walk, and wonder that we wept to think others 
had reached its smoother track before us, or that 
we could dread to enter the road this little one 
leads into. 

The road of life is one of trials, my boy. Few 
can walk without tripping or stumbling. Few 
are they who can walk and not weary — who seek 
not the shady side for the rest it gives. Why 
you and us walk, ao one can tell. Why others 
travel, you and us do not know. The cars, boats, 
and stages are well filled — people have business 
in the city — aims as varied as the mackerel-back 
Bky of autumn — each car, an archipelago of 
ideas, wonderful, inexplicable, and mysterious. 

Man is like a trunk riding in a full baggage- 



The Roads, the Hea/rth a/)id Fender. 141 

car. The outside does not surely indicate the 
contents. The check is not always evidence of its 
destination — there are so many changes. Side by 
side we journey on, the humble satchel filled with 
valuable papers between two large trunks filled 
with stolen goods — the worn russet-covered valise 
cheek by jowl with the elegantly sacked store- 
house of fashion. We see the trunks in the car — 
who claims them, you nor us, Yalter, cannot tell. 
And few of us know how to walk this road — 
or any other one. We go rattling along like a 
pauper cart — ^hub-hitting as do omnibuses in 
Broadway — striking posts and corners, jolting 
and smashing the delicate machinery of life, or 
wearing it out with too great friction. We 
travel too fast. We look so far ahead that we 
tumble. In the future the present is lost. Man 
never knows how he lives. Ambition is a cruel 
reinsman — up hill and down it drives the tired 
servant with stinging lash. Wealth is never 
won. The child is never satisfied with two ap- 



142 The Roads, the Hearth and Fender. 

pies in its tiny hand, but in grasping three, loses 
all. Revenge is sweet, but no one can ride with 
it long. Love is the most unreasonable motive, 
because it stops for neither ditch nor hedge. 

Home is a good master, for the pay is good — in- 
terest prompt. Before we die let us look in upon 
one, my boy, and see if it is well to hasten on too 
fast. The hearth and fender look beautiful to 
the gentle. Ambition, even when gratified, can- 
not soothe pain or stiU the throbbing temple. 
Wealth never satisfies the heart. Fame is like 
the crumbling frosting to bridal cake — hard to 
make — easily broken. If there was a skylight 
in our final house, so that we could see who 
laughed and who wept when the sexton spat on 
his hands, grasped the shovel, and rattled in on 
our sonorous roof the first sod or mass of frozen 
dirt and stones — or if there were windows, so we 
could see who followed after with sad hearts, 
there would be satisfaction in death — but no. 
Words are cheap — they conceal one's thoughts 



The Roads, the Hearth and Fender. 143 

Men call us friends — for fun. They use us as 
hunters do rifles — ^when gone, get another. 

"We pick up much rubbish as we look along 
through life, my boy — we learn much not worth 
learning — we cut the leaves to many a book of no 
benefit — we carry many a pile of slag thinking it 
to be virgin ore. We coil for use many a rope 
of sand. 

But there is a light to life for all. There is a 
cushioned seat if we but use it. 

By the Hearth and Fender. 

When the toil is over, there you can enter. 
Some one heart from all of God's has run into 
your own, and side by side you sit and dream of 
the golden future. How like heaven are the 
Home bowers lining our path into the road be- 
yond. The world may have all the day been 
cheerless — the cares of business may have been 
like the dew — ^the keen word, ungrateful act, or 
marked neglect may have cut to the heart — ^there 
is still one place left — Home. 



144 Tlie Eoads, the HeoHh cmd Fender. 

Yalter, my boy, it is a pleasant picture. The 
clanking gate opens the eyelids of some one with- 
in — the footstep on the walk falls on the ear like 
pleasant memories — the hand-touched door-knob 
stills for a moment the heart in waiting ; the 
well-known presence felt by love lightens the 
load of the day — the word — the kiss — the gentle 
clasp — the lovelit glance revealing to each other 
treasures the world knows not of — ^the gentle 
drawing to your breast of the heart which so 
loves you — the sigh of relief as the heaven is 
reached — the kiss of love; more eloquent than 
words, more fervent than heat. These indicate a 
chapter in Life's great Book, but few ever read 
it. 

Home is the place, my boy. ITot the sem- 
blance — ^but the reality as God intended it. 

When the labor of a long day is over, how 
blessed it is to have a hearth and fender ! The 
blast may howl without — casements may rattle — 
wagons may rumble — bells may jingle — dogs may 



The Roads, the Hearth arid Fender. 145 

bay at the cold moon — those you hate may plot 

for your ruin — the tempest may rage in fury; 

who cares? The labor of the day is over. Some 

one has kissed the last sorrow away. Some lips 

have thawed the frozen heart — some gentle hand 

has cleared from you the clouds of care which for 

hours have hung so dark and sombre over the 

heart. Some one, dearer than life to you, has 

nestled by your side, or sits in your lap with one 

arm around yom- neck ; her soft cheek with 

electric touch setting your face in a tremor — eye 

looking home into mystic depths — happy! who 

cares for the world? Who cares for brambles 

lining the road ? 

The past pictures are one by one brought up — 

the future is bravely looked into— the present is 

improved. New life for the morrow is given. 

New hope for the futm-e is yours. New wishes 

are bom unto you. The hours of evening glide 

on. The heart all your own is gladdened by 

your loving presence. The minutes drop off like 
7 



146 The Boads^ the Hearth and Fender. 

stitclies from, knitting-needles — lives run still 
closer in together, and yon are happy. 

And yet, Yalter, with all these golden bless- 
ings to reward life, there are those who weary of 
existence and plunge over the deep precipice in- 
stead of following the road to its end ; and there 
are those who see in the beautiful border of the 
daily road nothing but hate, envy, jealousy, and 
mistrust — who would die by the road, when it is 
so easy to reach the heabth and fendee. 




CHAPTER XX. 



Sunday Night. 




0-DAY is Saturday — to-night is 
Saturday night — to-morrow will 
be Sunday — after to-morrow is 
dead, and laid out in its- black 
shroud, with the stars to guard and watch, 
Sunday night will come. Fix up the parlor 
— kindle the fire there early, so that the room 
will be warm — fill the lamp to the brim — 
see that the blinds or curtains are a fit — place 
the chairs at regular intervals about the room, 
like pickets — smooth the silken hair over the 
brow, and wait. A step ! Ah ! my little girl — 



148 Sunday Night. 

you know whose step ! The heart trembles like 
a little bird — the eye wanders from object to ob- 
ject — and then to your own dear self. A rap on 
the door — a timid little rap ! And you preterid 
not to hear it, though if it were made with a 
feather you would have heard it ! Another rap — 
ah! by "hard" listening, you distinguish the 
sound. Singular ! And how surprised you are, 
to be sure! Never dreamed of his coming! 
Take care, little one ! Eyes talk louder than do 
lips ! The parlor looks cheery. Two of the 
pickets are called in from the sides of the room. 
Of course your guest must be entertained. Time 
flies — the clock in the other room ticks away the 
moments — ^its hands slowly crawl up as if to peer 
over the door — the fire burns and crackles in its 
prison — the old folks file off to bed, to wonder 
what you are talking about, and to think of their 
sparking days — the clock talks its take-ca/re I 
take-care ! take-care ! — now loud, then low — but 
your lips will meet and linger on the brink of 



Sunday Night. 149 

love's fountain. The times are hard. The lamp 
wastes oil. What a pretext for economy ! Its 
flame is turned down. Of course you cannot see 
as plain till the chairs come closer together. 
Hark ! The faithful old clock, with its hands 
over its face so as not to see, says ''Hake-care^'' 
but the hands will wander — the lips will meet — 
the eyes will go down into each other's mystic 
depths, lit by the purest of diamonds; and you 
wish that time did not fly so fast ! The wood- 
box is empty ! The solid glass has drank down 
the oil most wonderfully — the wick looks as if 
drenched in poverty — the murky morn peeps in 
through the crevices — you wonder where the 
hours have fled. Listen ! The old clock says 
louder than ever, " tcike-care^'^ " take-care^'' but 
again do you sip nectar from the ruby oval cup — 
your hands and eyes speak what the lips have not 
time to^ and out on the old ocean of time floats 
Sunday night ! 



Ml^M^^& 


B'^^'Mmm 


[M^msi 


mm^M 


^^^m 



CHAPTEE XXI. 



In which we Travel on Dangerous Ground. 




[ALTER, my boy, take hold of my 
arm, and let us walk slowly, and 
speak very carefully, for fear that 
passers-by may hear. 
" They will hear no good of themselves ! " 
Well, my boy, some of them would not, and 
some w^ould. We will have to walk slowly, as 
the people are too slovenly to clear the snow 
from the walks in front of their houses, and it 
is dangerous to travel, except in the " horse- 
walk." 

You are now, Yalter, my boy, almost old 



We Travel on Da7igerou8 Ground. 151 

enough to marry. The nights are long, and it is 
pleasant to sit beside one yon love, and to gaze 
into her soul-warming eyes — ^looking at the pic- 
ture-gallery of the future. To love a girl, my 
boy, is a good thing, and God speed you in all 
such enterprises of the heart. But, my boy, look 
out. There is a " Jack for every Jill"— be sure 
you have the right heart, or better you had never 
known love. It is so easy to be miserable. Be 
careful, my boy, where your heart leads you to. 
You never can force a heart to love — ^love once 
lost never returns. Prayers, tears, entreaties, 
kindness, never will bring back the holy pleasure 
you once knew, if the current has changed. 

If you are looking for a wife, Yalter, my boy, 
you want a woman. You want to find one who 
will be a friend. One whose tears will mingle 
with your own — who will smile when you smile 

who will love you, oh ! so dearly. There are 

plenty of pretty flowers which give no odor. 
They will never pay for making into a bouquet. 



152 We Tra/vel on Dangerous Ground. 

There are humble little plants, growing low 
under hedges and beside little cottage-walls, 
which will yield a rich and lasting fragrance. 
These are the flowers to cull, and these repay the 
trouble of love culture. It is easy to let your 
heart run out — hard to reel it in. Be careful 
where it runs to. 

If you go to see a girl, go with good inten- 
tions or stay away. And go to hone but the 
good ones. Avoid coquettes — they are heartless 
and cold. There is a little girl in the house 
we have just passed. Monday night a fellow 
visits her. He sits on the sofa and talks non- 
sense till midnight — takes a kiss at the door and 
leaves. Tuesday night another chap calls — the 
parlor is again in use till the "wee sma' hour 
ayont the twal," and side by side they sit — 
his hand playing with the corner of her apron- 
string — his toe just touching the little slipper 
so prettily peeping out from her dress — his 
words those leading to love. At last he leaves, 



We Travel on Dcmgeroiis Grownd. 153 

and his tobacco-stained lips have left their foul 
imprint on her cheek. Wednesday night an- 
other fellow calls. These are all nice young 
men of course — ^they visit the girl to make love 
to her. He sits beside her — his head half ly- 
ing on her shoulders — ^his hand playing with 
the ring on her finger — at tunes playfully bit- 
ing the stray curls which fall so gloriously over 
her pretty neck. Late in the night he leaves, 
and promises to call again. Thursday night 
another lover calls. The parlor is lighted up — 
the sofa is in use — ^her head rests on his shoul- 
der — his arm is around her waist just as it is 
in these girl-ruining waltzes, where each liber- 
tine is allowed by polite society to hug every 
man's wife till the blood is frenzied. They 
talk low and forget what they say. He plays 
witli the bows of her neck-tie — bites her finger 
nails in sport — tells her he is in love, and at 
past midnight the filthy fumes of gin can be 
tasted from her lips. Friday night another fel- 



154 We Travel an Dangerous Ground. 

low goes to make love. He sits on the sofa — 
leaving room enough at the other end for a 
boy's coffin — ^he takes both her hands in his 
own — ^he holds her head close to his heart — ^he 
kisses over and over again the lips which should 
be sacred to some one — he clasps her about the 
waist and tells her he loves — ^he kisses her over 
and over again, and leaves for home to be sa- 
luted on his way by every chanticleer in the 
neighborhood. 

IS'ow, Yalter, my boy, it is your turn Saturday 
night. That was the arrangement — go and 
teach your heart to love, enter the arena and 
bear off the prize. 

" No, sir — I have got through ! " 

Right, Yalter, my boy. Such a girl is not the 
girl to make a good wife of. It is time lost to 
win what you will wear with regret. The girl 
who really loves — whose heart is that of a true 
woman, wants no crowd of lovers. If she loves 
but one, she is wronging hereelf to tempt the 



We Travel on Dangerous Ground. 155 

others — ^if she loves all, she can love none truly. 
If you wish to be happy, Yalter, my boy, keep 
clear of such decoys. She may love, but it is 
not of that kind which will last over the rough 
road to the grave ; and in after years the prize 
you have won from so many competitors will not 
be as dear to you as when urged on by pride 
and ambition to win beauty and not good- 
ness. 

Let us tell you, my boy, who to win if you 
look for heaven on earth. Find some one whose 
tastes are like your own. The hearts of those 
who love will never be false — you will not have 
to woo to win. If you have found such a one, 
my boy, guard her with love — if not, wait till the 
throbbing heart and the eye answering eye, even 
the first time you meet, tells the story. Find one 
who loves you. Find one you can love, if all the 
world despise — ^find one your heart tells you is 
worthy, whom you will love — not because others 
do, but because she is the one you have always 



156 We Travel on Dangerous Grovmd. 

looked for — find the ideal of your dreams and 
childish fancies, and be happy. 

Yalter, my boy, there are such girls. These 
are those who will wait for one — ^who will live 
for one — who would die for one they love. 
They are not in the market for every one to 
inspect. They want no variety of love — ^they ask 
but for the heart that is true — the mind that is 
pm-e. When you have found such a girl, you 
have found a prize. Then, my boy, you will be 
happy. Ko matter if poverty is yours — love will 
share it. If sickness rests with you, love will 
lessen pain. Then, my boy, you can visit that 
girl, and talk over the future — can wa^t till the 
happy day that shall before the world make you 
her own protector, and give you a purpose to 
live for. You can go at night when the labors 
of the day are over, and how glad will be your 
coming ! On the sofa — the lounge, or even on 
the uncarpeted floor, you can sit for hours, and, 
with no passion but holy love, talk over the 



We Travel on Dangerous Ground. 157 

future, and bless the day you first met. Distant 
may be the time when circumstances will en- 
able you to take her to your own home — but 
it will come. Then, my boy, you can sit by her 
side, and the gently pressing hand — the softly 
beaming eye — the deep look which speaks vol- 
umes untold — the silent and pure kiss will nerve 
you on to a nobler life — to greater exertion — to 
purer aims. You will have no fear that others 
will drink of the nectar you in bashfulness did 
but sip — no fear that the secret wishes of your 
heart, known only to her and God will ever be 
made known — no fear that another will break 
from the bush the rose you have so long watched 
and cared for. 

Such a girl — one who wants but a single lover 
— but one to be the occupant of her inner heart, 
is worth a heaven. Win her, and love her. If 
you are poor and she will marry you, do it not, 
until able to support her, as sickness may rob 
your cupboard, but waiting can never break your 



158 We Tra/vel on Dangerous Groimd. 

love. If joung, and she will wait, my boy, you 
have a prize greater than the Kohinoor. If in 
trouble and she still clings to you — weeps with 
you — sympathizes with you — ^kisses the tears from 
your eyes, and on bended knees you can together 
— ^heart pressing to heart — both hearts reaching 
up to God in prayer for His grace and blessings — 
look the future fearlessly in the face and swear 
to wait till the clouds lift ; then, Yalter, my boy, 
you have found an angel who will make your 
heart a paradise, and your life ever happy. 
Hearts are often matched, my boy — sometimes 
mated. And the car which carries all sorts of 
freight, is not a good car for pleasure parties. 




CHAPTEK XXII. 



About Twigs and their Early BENoma. 




|ALTEK, my boy, it's a funny thing 
— about the twig, we mean. 
" I don't twig it ! " 
Well, my boy — it is this : " Just 
as the twig is bent, the tree is inclined." !N"o 
matter whether it be a wooden twig, or a meat 
one ; a sprig of shillalah or a sprig of humanity. 
As you plant the corn, so will it grow, and it be- 
hooves people to plant straight. Now can you 
tell us, Yalter, my boy, how a father — a fond and 
dear father, can expect his children to be amiable 
in their dispositions, when he is as cross as the 



160 Twigs cmd their Ea/riy Bending, 

gable end of a saw-horse whenever the house is 
graced with his presence ? If the father swears, 
can he expect his son to refrain from the use of 
profanity ? If he is cross and peevish, finding 
fault with everything and everybody, how can 
he reasonably expect the twiglets of his family 
to do differently ? Leaning against the shrub will 
warp the tree, my boy. If the father keeps late 
hours, and frequents places like Caesar's wife — 
beyond suspicion — ^how can he blame the son for 
following in the footsteps of his illustrious prede- 
cessor ? If the father cannot control his temper, 
is it right, my boy, to whip the child for learn- 
ing his daily lesson but too well ? Little twigs 
see things very close. While the large tree is 
looking ahead over its neighbors ; over stumps, 
rocks, creeks, valleys, and houses, the twig is 
looking close along the ground, twisting and 
bending about by every breeze, and prying into 
the little crooks, angles, and crevices, and under 
the leaves, stones, and bunches of flowers — ob- 




" Whatever the parent does is right in the eyes of the 
child. Yet folks Avonder why their children show certain 
traits of character as years settle upon them:'— Page 101. 



Twigs cmd their Ea/rly Bendvag. 161 

serving a thousand things its loftier parent never 
thinks of observing. If the father is a sloven, 
how can the child be anything else, until new 
ideas are born within him? If the father, on 
entering the house, throws his hat, coat, muffler, 
boots, and bundle in different directions, careless 
of the labor he makes for others, how can the 
child be chided for doing the same % 

If the father is a church member, and, as is 
too often the case, succeeds in overreaching his 
neighbor, and boasts of it at the table — and the 
tea-table is a funny place, my boy — how can he 
expect his child to learn honesty, or to respect 
professors of religion? Whatever the parent 
does is right in the eyes of the child — yet, folks 
wonder why their children show certain traits 
of character, as years rapidly settle upon them. 
The mother expects her daughter to be a lady 
some day, but forgets to set an example. At the 
table, or by the fireside, she indulges in uncalled- 
for remarks about her neighbors, or throws out in 



162 Twigs and their Ea/rly Bending. 

sinuatioDS against the character of those as good as 
herself, and then expects her child to be a lady I 
If the mother be untidy in her dress — allows dust 
and dirt to accumulate on stands and behind 
doors, how can she blame the daughter for fall- 
ing into the same habit? If she washes the 
dishes in cold or lukewarm watei*, without soap, 
wipes them with a slowsy rag, and sets them 
away so greasy that you can draw Solomon's tem- 
ple or write the epitaph of a baby in the grease 
on them with a fork tine, how in the name of 
faith can she expect her daughter to be neat? 
All these little things tell. These little twigs 
are great institutions, my boy, and the wind 
which sways the tree will affect the bush. Such 
is the law of nature, my boy. Yet folks never 
see it as they should. If the mother is a discreet 
and sensible woman, the daughters will be the 
same. If not, don't take chances on them, my 
boy. If the father is a gentleman, the son will 
be very apt to be much the same sort of a person, 



Twigs and their Early Bending. 163 

and take pride in honoring the author of his 
being." 

There are a thousand little things, my boy, 
which will make the boy into a loafer or a 
man. There are a thousand little acts at home, 
the influence of which will never die. As the 
shadow reflects the image of the subject, either 
lesser or greater, so will children reflect the 
education of home ; and the lessons taught by 
the fireside, or when kneeling by the side of a 
loved mother, last till we are no more. If a 
child is governed by kind words, so will its 
life give evidence. If home is made pleasant, 
the boy will have its sacred protection. If 
everything around the family circle is built 
loose and cross-grained, nothing but the power 
of God, or great ambition, will spring the boy 
back into the upright man. ISTo one is fit to 
govern himself till he has been governed — no 
one can govern others till he can govern him- 
self. And, my boy, it is the short lessons which 



164 Twigs and their Early Bending. 

we remember the longest. The home influ- 
ences are seldom forgotten, and the lessons for 
good or evil which you and us received in years 
agone, when our minds were more susceptible 
than now, will make or damn us, my boy. 
Parents cannot be too careful of the little ones 
given them. Their home lessons cannot be too 
good. 

If the parent thinks its own child perfect, 
how much more must the child think of its 
pai-ent, and how perfect in its eyes must be all 
that parent does — how cherished the teachings, 
how indelible the picture the eyes of youth 
looked upon as correct! Yes, Yalter, my boy, 
the twig is easily bent — but to straighten it is 
quite another and more difficult matter ; and as 
some of our readers are so easy to take hints, we 
will leave the subject with them. 

Now, Yalter, my boy, you and us are both 
friends of the boys. They are to make our 
future men. Those boys we see in the street? 



Twigs cmd their Early Bending. 165 

late nights, running wild like pigs, will in 
time be a part of society. If they have early 
taught them habits of sobriety, of care, of self- 
denial, of respect to others, they will make good 
men, and honor the names of their parents. If 
they are allowed to run loose until their habits 
are set, no power except pride can save them. 
And by-and-by the fathers of these boys will see 
them either men taking an active, honorable, and 
influential part in life, or they will see them 
loafei-s, fit for nothing but to hold a chair down 
in some saloon. And, Yalter, my boy, when 
death comes for his own, and the gray-haired 
man is laid down with his fathers, if his son who 
is to bear his name henceforth comes to his bed- 
side, erect in the vigor of manhood, upright in 
character as in form, honest in heart, how easy 
will be the dying hours of that father, for he will 
know that the helpless ones left behind will 
not suffer. But if the son is called from some 
saloon, and comes in with unsteady gait, red. 



166 Twigs and their Eai'ly Bending, 

watery eyes, thick tongue, and maudlin voice, 
the picture will live with the aged man be- 
yond the confines of the present, forever. 

We like boys — the jovial, prompt-speaking, 
bright-eyed, willing, gentlemanly boy, who is 
early learning the true way to manhood. We 
love boys who mind their own business, who seek 
the society of good boys instead of bad ones, for 
such make our great and good men. We love 
the boy who is full of fun, but respects the feel- 
ings of others, for he is already a gentleman. 
But the boy who cares not how dirty his clothes, 
or soiled his face ; who calls his father the " old 
man^'' and the mother, on whose breast when an 
infant he found rest and peace, the " old woman'*'* 
— who openly in the street tells his father he is 
a liar, and refuses to obey, is ticketed for a dis- 
honored grave and dishonored memory. Parents, 
look to these matters ! 

To make men of boys, Yalter, my boy, it is 
necessary they should be trained — not with a 



Twigs omd their Early Bendmg. 161 

club, but by kind words, good examples, and 
little switches. If parents stay at home, keep 
good-natured, and make home pleasant, boys will 
love to gather round the fireside. Let them get 
papers and books and teach their children to 
read— let them have games in the parlor, and be 
welcomed with smiles. Make home attractive, 
and boys will stay there — make it a sort of 
quarrelling school, ornamented with unkind 
words, and boys wiU soon go to the devil by a 
more genial route. 







um 



CHAPTEE XXIII. 



In which a Hard Word is Used. 




|T seems very easy, but you and us 
know better. There are a million 
of people biding God's time, who 
have been ruined by not being 
able to speak it. There goes a hard-working 
man. A wife and three children are dependent 
upon his labor for bread. When he is sober he 
is as nice a man as there is in the world, but at 
times some careless chap who means well but is 
forgetful, asks him to stop labor and go on a 
spree. And then, Yalter, that little word of two 
letters is so hard to pronounce, he cannot say it, 
and — the rest is too sad to tell. 



A Hard Word Used, 169 

And, Yalter, my boy, here comes a man who 
once was rich. He had friends; and money; 
and a loving family; and position; and influ- 
ence; and self-respect; and integrity; and a 
future of usefulness before him. But, my boy, 
he don't look like it now. He was elected to an 
important office. He forgot the lessons his good 
mother taught him, and was asked by designing 
politicians to sell his vote to a party of swindlers ; 
he could not for the life of him give articulation 
to that little word, and so he fell. 

And here, Yalter, is a young man. Just like 
you and us, my boy. He has wit, sense, educa- 
tion, intelligence, friends, ambition, and is loved. 
He has a knowledge of the world, acquired by 
mixing with its people, and seeing with his own 
eyes its shades and sunbeams. He has ambition 
— and the same field in which to win honor, fame, 
and distinction as had Franklin, Fulton, Morse, 
and a host of others who have lived honorable 

lives and now occupy honoi'ed graves. He is 

8 



ITO A Hard Word Used. 

naturally smart, but, Yalterj my boy, as lie meets 
us, do you see the excess of moisture in his eye — 
the little puffy ridge under it — the gradual turn- 
ing of the beautiful corners of the mouth his 
mother so loved to kiss — the nervous, convulsive 
twitching of the hands ? These, my boy, tell a 
sad tale — of early shipwi'eck — of disease — of pre- 
mature death — of neglected and squandered gifts. 
He became what he is, because he could not 
think of that little word, till too late ; and unless 
he thinks of it soon, it will be useless for him 
ever to try to do so. 

And, Yalter, my boy, here comes another man, 
whose nature is good — whose disposition is kind 
— whose wife loves him, but alas, Yalter, he is 
not the man she married. Before the wed- 
ding, he was all attention — now he is so very 
clever, that no matter who asks him to go to 
some place of resort, even to the neglect of 
one whose smiles are worth more to his heart 
than is all else — whose happiness adds but to 



A Ea/rd Word Used. 171 

his own — ^he leaves his familj circle till mid- 
night or later, and the heart that once knew 
and loved him so well, is growing cold to him 
forever. He is a good fellow — clever — tells a 
capital story — ^makes a funny face, but, Yalter, 
my boy, he can't say that little word, even for 
his own benefit. 

And, my boy, how much better if teachers 
would educate children of tender and riper 
years to say "no" at times. ISTot in a short, 
cold-iron — ^pipe-stem — bombshell style, but in a 
nimble, meaning way. If women, when sitting 
together and gossiping over the short comings or 
long goings of their neighbors not in earshot — 
would refrain from lying to and about each 
other — ^from trying to injure the characters of 
others as good as themselves — would in their 
hearts say, " :No, I'll not do this thing," the world 
would be better ofi*. And, Yalter, when tempted 
to give the sharp word — the cross look — the 
sulky toss of the head — the imkind remark — the 



172 A Hard Word Used. 

word that wounds — ^the glance that brings sorrow 
to those we love — how much better if we could 
mentally, if no other way, say " no." I^ever say 
it, my boy, when prompted to do a good deed — 
when called upon to relieve the distressed — 
when asked to extend aid to those who are 
worthy — when prompted by your better nature 
to be kind ; but when asked to take chances in 
the lottery of life which for reward only brings 
tears, sorrow, remorse, pain, guilt, and unhappi- 
ness, then with thoughts on the better angel 
who guards the door of your heart, no matter 
how great the effort, plainly and determinedly 
say " NO." It is a hard word, Yalter, my boy, 
but it is one worth studying. 




CHAPTEE XXIY. 




Musings at the End of the Week. 

|:^OTHEE drop in Time's bucket ! 
Another wave rolling in toward 
the shore of Eternity! Another 
chapter in the book of life ! An- 
other echo down the valley of Events ! Saturday 
night! Look back over the leaves of the seven- 
volume book, closed never more to be opened 
this side the Great Unknown. Do you ever 
think, gentle reader, that each Saturday night 
closes the book for or against you ? The week is 
God's Journal. The year is His Ledger. Death 
is His balance sheet, Debtor and Creditor ! The 



174 Musings at the End of the Week. 

week just laid in the "lap of ages" will unseal 
itself for your joy or your sorrow, as you alone 
have itemized the accounts. None of us have 
been perfect. Few of us dave done as we would 
that others would do by us. It is too late to 
recall the past, but not too late to pattern the 
fiiture. Against some one, your hate has been 
strengthened. Your hate ! Yain and deceptive 
word. How the grave mocks at your enmity 
against the soul it shelters. Of what use is it to 
hate each other ? Surely life is not made pleas- 
anter thereby. We are all but creatures. Mere 
leaves, borne to the earth by the breezes of time. 
Some fall sooner than others — but all of us fall. 
Leaf and thistle-do^vn go by as merrily ! They 
could not do otherwise. And what more is man ? 
Saturday night ! How many a kiss has been 
given — ^how many a curse — how many a caress — ■ 
how many a look of hate — how many a kind word 
— how many a promise has been broken — how 
many a heart has been wrecked — how many a soul 



Musings at the End of the Week. 175 

lost — ^how many a loved one lowered to the narrow 
chamber — ^how many a babe has gone from earth 
to heaven — how many a little crib or cradle stands 
silent now which last Saturday night held rarest 
of all the treasures of the heart ! A week is a life. 
A week is a history. A week marks events of 
sorrow or of gladness, which people never heed. 

Go home to your family, man of business. 
Go home to your heart, erring wanderer. Go 
home to the cheer which awaits you, wronged 
waif on life's breakers. Go home to those you 
love, man of toil, and give one night to the joys 
and comforts fast flying by. Leave your books 
with complex figures — your dirty shop — your 
busy store. Rest with those you love ; for God 
alone knows what next Saturday night will bring 
to you. Forget the world of care and the battles 
with life which have furrowed the week. Draw 
close about the family hearth. Gaze into the eyes 
of the heart-treasures God has given you. Be 
happy. Forgive those who have wronged you. 



176 Musings at the End of the Week, 

Shut from the heart, if but for one hour only, the 
corroding cares of life. The week to come will 
bring changes. The week just past has done so. 
How many a grave stands between this and last 
Saturday night ! How many a heart is bitter 
to-night, which a week since was flushed and 
joyous ? He is dead ! She is dead ! He is lost ! 
She is lost! l^ew loves hav^e come — old ones 
are gone. Hearts once Fad are now joyous. 
Hearts once joyous are now steeped in bitterness. 
Saturday night ! Go home to those you watch 
over. Leave the wine-cup — the poisoned glass 
— the carousing table — the room of revelry — 
the glances of tempters — the habitation of vice 
and profligacy, and for once, rest by your own 
friends, and gladden the hearts of those who, to 
your shame be it said, have for so many Satur- 
day nights awaited your coming in sadness, in 
tears and silence. Go home to those you love ; 
and as you bask in the loved presences, and 
meet to return the loved embraces of your 



Musings at the End of the Week. 177 

heart's pets, strive to be a better man and to 
bless God for giving His weary cbildren so dear 
a stepping-stone in the river to the Eternal, as 
Satuedat night. 




8* 



CHAPTEK XXY. 




In which Post-Mortem Processions are 
Spoken op. 

|STEI]N"G of carriages, Yalter, my boy, 

"Where?" 

In your eye, Yalter, too often. 
Boil it down — thrash it out — win- 
now it over — bag it up, deduct the commission, 
and the grand object of life is the post-mortenn 
picture of a string of carriages. How it worries 
all of us ! Whenever a good man, a bad man, or 
an indifferent man goes hence in a box, we look 
to the procession following him home — or to the 
threshold, and feel a touch of regret lest our pro- 
cession will be a link or two shorter. This is a 
queer world, my boy. People care not for the 



Post-Mortem Processions. 179 

living, while the dead are like incubated egg- 
shells. The rifle-ball speeds on its way, and if 
death follows its flight, the marksman watching 
its passage laughs in glee. If a man makes his 
mark only in the grave, society smiles a sweet 
little smile, and is happy. 

In Hindostan people are honest. The proof 
is in the fact that hired mourners follow men to 
the grave. Tears are worth their five tekels each. 
A bunch of hair, the size of a small trellett of as- 
paragus, pulled fresh from the head of the profes- 
sional brine-spiller, costs ten rupees. That is the 
country, my boy. That is the Edenic Garden of 
honesty, where funeralic elongations of the face 
are over with as soon as the initial clod bounces 
down with its hollow thump on the flat roof of 
the quiet tenant. This is a queer world, my boy. 
Men attend funerals as a matter of compliment. 
Not that the dead man will repay the little 
courtesy, but with the hope that such politeness 
will impress others with the style. 



180 Post-Mortem Processions. 

This is a quiet lane, Yalter. Life is a lane, 
but not as quiet. While that funeral procession 
passed, you and us stood with uncovered heads. 
In France — wicked France, as they tell us — even 
the peasants pay this mark of respect to those 
who have only caught the notes of angelic choirs 
before them. Here, people do no such thin 
foolishness. It was a long procession, ray boy. 
Longer than will wind along after you or us. 
Did you mark the look of those who followed ? 
Noted you the manner in which the man with 
the bay horse toyed his whalebone among the 
weeds by the roadside, as if driving in from the 
races ? And the two men in the next carriage — 
how they eyed the widow! The woman mar- 
ried for money, my boy. She got what she 
wanted. The poor fellow riding on his back, 
married for beauty. Oil and water. He died. 
She is free. Business, Yalter — business is the 
word. 

And the next carriage is a political debat- 



Post-Mortem Processimis. 181 

mg school. The occupants speak low— the de- 
ceased had held an office— the grave will soon 
hold him— worms will open his heart into little 
worm-parlors— his veins will be canals— his once 
teeming brain will be a city of corruption- 
like all cities— the reptiles will feast on the of- 
fice he left for greedy, sordid ghouls to feed 
and fatten upon. When a man is measured up, 
my boy, he doesn't amount to as much as a bale 
of rags. But his body— his brain, is the work- 
shop from whence cometh beautiful machinery 
which will run for years after the shop is re- 
moved—or it is a mass of slag, boiled out by fire 
from the ore of humanity, tramwayed through 
life by the hand of fate. Side by side, lovers 
whispering joy — eye telling eye volumes too 
condensed for words. They are not mourning. 
The children of him who has hoed his row and 
left the weeds for his widow, mourn— to think 
the property to be divided is not larger. Political 
enemies ride in the procession, glad to think one 



182 Post-Mortem Processions. 

object hateful to them is removed. Everybody 
goes to a funeral — except those who truly mourn. 
Mourning machinery would pay . 

Yalter, we have seen at home — after the pro- 
cession had turned the corner, more anguish 
than all the mourners felt — we have known 
hearts that could not, for fear of what the world 
would say, go down into the watei*s of bitterness 
never to rise again. Secret and mysterious. 
Hid behind hedges — springing forth unseen by 
all save God, on the banks of the quiet stream, 
have bloomed flowers the world never knew of 
— but they bloomed, and died — and lived agai/n. 
Deep in the aisles of nature — nestling under the 
mighty pines — trembling at the roar of the grand 
old forest — unseen and uncared for by the 
world, flowers have blossomed — have died when 
the storm was born and the tree which sheltered 
them so long, bowed in submission to His 
breath. Many a ball passes beyond the target 
and wounds deeper than time can heal — ^yet 



Po8t-Mortem Pr^ocessions. 183 

people but look at the mark. There is moum- 
ing, my boy, where we look for indifference — 
there is indifference where we look for tears. 

Life is a curiosity shop — a pawnbroker's office 
— a medley of truth and falsehood. Men whistle 
on the streets — but they can never tell what tune ! 
Others look at their watches, but in a minute 
after, in answer to the inquiry of a friend, can- 
not tell the time of day. Men write foolish let- 
ters, which, like Banquo's ghost, trouble them 
ever after. Some make promises whose children 
are regrets. They make friends whose teeth are 
outside their lips — who bite oftener than they 
kiss. Men are queer folks, Yalter. 

You and us, my boy, have much to learn. 
Death but takes the ticket we have spent our 
lives in making change for; and the show we 
attend beyond the vestibule will be in the pit or 
gallery, as we choose now. We live for nothing 
but appearances — anxious only to make the line 
of carriages appear as long as possible, but 



184 Post-Mortem Processions. 

seldom know how to do it. Death comes to you 
and ns — we are by the grave-yard " gobbled up " 
— ^the air which surrounds us gently comes to- 
gether — ^no one cares for us then, except a few ; 
yet, Yalter, we spend our lives trying to please 
the multitude who know not our hearts nor will 
honor our memory. What a bubble we live on, 
my boy ! 






CHAPTER XXYI. 



Pictures. — ^Picture First. 




HE clock over the bar points to half- 
past eleven — within thirty minutes 
of midnight. Being in a city, the 
clock points yet to an early hour, 
but out by the little forty-by-eighty feet farms — 
out from the places of idle resort, that clock 
would point to a very late hour. Since tea-time, 
at a table four men have been sitting. Four 
mugs of ale — four gin cocktails — four cigars — 
four rum-punches — four brandy-smashes — four 
cigars — four mint-juleps — four whiskey-skins — 
four brandy-straights have been brought to that 



186 Pictures. 

table since the sun bade us " good-night ! " Full 
glasses to the table — empty ones back! The 
room has grown smoky — thick and foul. The 
hard chairs have become tired! The lamp be- 
gins to blush at the coarse stories told, in which 
the holy name of woman has been so often and 
profanely mixed. The brains grow dull — a 
weary morning approaches ! 

" Cut ! " 

" Let me shuffle first ! " 

" Spades trump ! " 

"Pass!" 

" Pass ! " 

" By ! " 

" I'll take it up — ^bar-tender, another cocktail 
—stiff! " 

" "Well, boys, another rub on you ! It's only 
twelve — let's have another rip ! " 

" Well, cut the papes I Clubs trump I " 



" Assist I " 



Piotv/res. 18T 

" Play her alone — let her scoot ! " 

"Well, you made it — another brandy with 
sugar ! " 

" Kub apiece again ! Let's saw for the ci- 
gars!" 

"Stuck again — just my luck. Bar-tender, 
what's the pop ? " 

"Five rubs on you — ^five fortys — two dollai's. 
Ten shillings on you ! Dollar and twenty on 
you — ^two dollars on you — all right — take a cigar, 
gents, and call again ! " 

Picture Second. 

" Eight o'clock, and he is not here yet ! How 
dreary this little room does seem, and I am so 
lonesome ! Ten o'clock ! How I wish he would 
come. It's so lonely here with the children 
asleep ! Once, he loved to stay with me, but 
now, alas ! Twelve o'clock, and I am so tired. 
I cannot sleep ! My heart aches and grows sad 
— I'm growing old, perhaps — ^maybe my face is 



188 Pictures. 

not as fair as once, but my heart is as warm, 
though it is often sad. 

" One o'clock ! "What charms can he find in 
that foul-scented room — by that dirty table, cut- 
ting and dealing those greasy cards — ^filling him- 
self with poison — tainting his breath — ^ruining 
his mind — undermining his constitution — plant- 
ing seeds of disease — squandering his money — 
clouded with smoke — tired with excitement ! Is 
this happiness — is this life — is this our mission ? 
Is this the realization of childhood's dreams? 
Oh ! I am so tired of life — so weary of waiting 
and watching, that were it not for my babes I 
would go unbidden into the holy presence of 
my God ! Morn comes, but not he." 

"Has papa come?" 

"No, my little pet — ^pa has not come — ^lie 
still!" 

" If hot tears could add beauty to my face, 
none would be so handsome as I ! But why will 
he not come ? Mv eyes grow dim, my heart is 



Pictures. 189 

in my throat — ah ! I hear his footfall — weak and 
unsteady ! " 

PICTURE THIRD. 

"Do you go down town to-night, my 
pet?" 

"No, darling. I have labored enough to- 
day. Why should I flee from home — from hap- 
piness, from thee ? Life is full short to love — 
too short to squander. I love the photograph 
of my heart too well. No, darling — my heart 
is here — here let me keep it company." 

It is a pleasant room, but not a large one. 
Night has gently closed the windows of day, and 
set the golden seals as watchers over us. By an 
open window they sit, his head recHning on her 
breast; their hands linked together; their lips 
often wedded to each other, their souls going out 
together in the dim twilight, far into God's own 
future of love, and their lives so sweetly and 
calmly blending into the one that brings a happy 



190 Pictures. 

reuniting in the beautiful spirit-world. Softly 
and lowly they talk over the past, and of the 
future — thanking God that they are man and 
wife — happy — hajppy — happy. How her arms 
encircle his neck — ^how his arm clasps her heart 
to his own ! With what holy love, for it is God's 
love, do they rest palm in palm — read their hearts 
by magic touch — study in beaming eyes the 
book of love — and from lips warm and red with 
life, slowly and gently take renewal seals of love 
and happiness! Many yesterdays have placed 
themselves as sentries between them and their 
wedding-day, but love has made no abatement. 
The day sentries have stepped one by one in, 
crowding that day back, and them on toward 
eternity, but love has been with them ever. No 
need of saloons to make the hours pass pleas- 
antly, for where the heart is anchored there will 
be the world whose sun never sets, and at home 
will be found all the charms man can ask for. 
The heart never tires of one it loves. Each mo- 



Pictures. 1^1 

ment is as the one just past, only more precious. 
Heaven is within a man's own house if his idol 
be there, and his heart be true to its vows and 
manhood. 




CHAPTER XXYII. 



We Wonder why Wonders will never Cease ! 




lALTER, mj boy, it is cold this 
morning. The snow, in fine par- 
ticles, is sifting down on the just 
as well as the unjust. Draw your 
muffler close around your mouth — for a close 
mouth is a sign of a wise head. 

"And a laughing man indicates an honest 
one!" 

Well, Yalter, my boy, that is the theory. But 
hasten on. It is yet early. All around you can 
see the white smoke going heavenward. It goes 
up, my boy, just as pretty — it curls as gracefully 



Wmiders wiU never Cease! 193 

— ^it floats off into the boundless air — it ascends 
as high toward the thi'one of God from the hum- 
ble cabin of the laboring man, as from the tall 
chimney of the banker. Those columns of smoke 
are the morning freight-trains, carrying from 
earth to heaven the good and the evil thoughts 
of those who now, as we proceed to work, are 
gathering around their family hearths. And do 
you know, Yalter, that at times it seems as if 
we could tell from the smoke of the chimneys, 
whether the ones who warm by the fire from 
which it rises are happy or miserable ? 

"How?" 

Well, Yalter, my boy, you notice, as we walk 
along, that from the little cabins of the Irish and 
German laborers — from the neat cottage of the 
honest working-man, the smoke rises more stead- 
ily — more clearly — more regularly than from 
other dwellings. So with their lives — their hopes 
— ^their wishes — their daily walk and conversa- 
tion. Now look over there. That high, tucked- 
9 



194 Wonders will never Cease! 

up chimney sends forth a whiffling, curly, un 
steady, puflfy-like cohimn, resembling a cork- 
screw. It darts hither and yon. Can you see 
no resemblance there to the lives of those sleep- 
ing beneath its shadow, while a servant is cook- 
ing the morning repast ? 

" The higher it is the more it flirts and 
whiffles ! " 

That's it, Yalter. On the tree of life, the 
higher you sit, the more unsteady are the 
branches ! The bird in the topmost bough of 
the elm under which we are passing, when the 
wind blows, sits not half so steady as the one 
farther down. So with the tree of life. The 
higher one goes, the more he is tempted — the 
more the world buffets and storms about him ; 
and. unless his hold be firm — unless his heart 
know what integrity means, sooner or later he 
will fall. And, Yalter, my boy, the higher you 
climb, the more care you should take to hold on ! 
But, Yalter, let us go in from- the snow and 



Wonders will never Cease! 195 

storm. It is too much like the hearts of many 
we call our friends. 

Ah ! this is nice ! So warm and pleasant 
Let us sit by the window and see others 
walk. Do you see that man, and that other 
man? 

" Yes, but what of them ? " 

They are like other men, 'tis true, but they are 
not perfect. One is a father. He has three girls, 
all grown to womanhood. They are good girls 
— each one of them fit to make any honest, 
honorable man hapjiy for life. The other man 
has a wife— a lady she is, too. They claim to be 
gentlemen— dress like gentlemen, bow to us like 
gentlemen, and gracefully salute us with the 
curving arm, as do gentlemen. But, Yalter, my 
boy, if you should hear them in saloons— in 
bar-rooms, in little knots, in stores— everywhere ; 
relating for the amusement of a dirty-minded 
crowd, stories, anecdotes, experiences, and lies, 
in which the holy and loved name of woman 



196 Wonders will never Cease! 

was so indecently mixed that you would term 
them, not gentlemen, but loafers. 

How it sounds for gentlemen to get together 
and relate indecent stories by the hour ! They 
are suitable persons to talk about women's 
" talking societies " ! How they must respect 
women — how they must love the pure and 
innocent, to laugh until they cry, for hours to- 
gether, over the coarse jest and low remark 1 
Yalter, my boy, God made man the strongest, to 
protect woman. Not alone by his strength, but 
by his silence. Not alone by force of arms, but 
the respect he should teach others to have for the 
sex who make life desirable. We look on our 
mothers, or on their memory, as sacred. We 
look on our wives, also, as sacred — on our daugh- 
ters as pure and innocent. The true gentleman 
never speaks of woman, Yalter, as other than 
she should be spoken of ; and those who gather 
in cozy places to make her the subject of low 
remark and vulgar wit, make themselves less 



Wonders will never Cease! 197 

happy than they would be, did they not by their 
words and thoughts rob virtue of its sacredness 

and by their conversation tend to make woman 

but a living piece of flesh, instead of the kind 
and precious creature of love — of goodness — of 
kind wishes and happy influences. And now, '*^, 
Yalter, remember, that the true gentleman never 
speaks lightly of the one who gave him being, 
nor of her sex. 



!\ 



f^4«jsefe5fe^ 



I 



CHAPTEK XXYIII. 



Wherein the Use of Money is Spoken of. 




|ALTER, my boy, you cannot eat it ; 
it is not drinkable ; clothing cannot 
be made of it, yet you and us toil 
and worry year after year. 
"What for?" 

" What for ? " Money, to be sure. All there 
is in the world would be a goodly fortune, but 
my boy, it is not worth its cost. That is, for it- 
self. Once in a while, ray boy, a man gets 
enough, as he does of love, or any other passion, 
but the majority labor and save, and starve, 
and study deprivations, and go through life as an 



The Use of Money is SpoJcen of. 199 

argument penetrates a fanatic, to get something 
to jingle while the devil is checking his bag- 



Money is a good thing ; but then, my boy, not 
one in a hundred knows how to use it. There is 
happiness in it, if we know how to find it. 
Burying it in farms for poor men to dig out for 
us is not a good way. Hoarding twenty-five-cent 
pieces in a dirty stocking is no way to enlarge 
the heart. Carrying it folded in a belt around 
you is no sensible way. In God's heaven are 
many stars, but not more than there are ways to 
use money well and wisely. 

Be liberal. Be a man — ^not a skinflint. If 
you have a talent, my boy, let it benefit some one. 
Give others the benefit of your light. Do not, 
because you are rich, allow your heart to become 
coated over with base metal. It takes but a 
little to support life — it takes but a little more to 
live well — and but a little more to live in good 
style. All beyond this had better be put to some 



200 The Use of Money is Spoken of. 

good purpose. Don't be covetous, Yalter, my 
boy. What if some old hunks are rich! Hot 
metal is, to our mind, a severe bed. Dispense 
the favors of life as you go. Help others and 
be happy. 

What sense is there in carrying a big trunk 
to the depot — and there allowing it to remain ? 
What evidence of wisdom is it to carry wealth to 
the grave — and then leave it ? Where the streets 
are paved vrith gold, what little a man would get 
in this world, would be swept into the garbage 
pile. To be sure, you may die rich. That is, 
the editor who for a dollar and fifty cents writes 
your obituary in common style — for ^\e dollars 
makes you a philosopher, and for ten makes you 
a Croesus, will say you died rich, if a fortune was 
left for relatives to fight over. The ties of con- 
sanguinity, Yalter, my boy, are regulated by the 
size of the oak chest. If the father is rich, you 
and us call him the old gentleman. If he is poor, 
we say " the old man." There is just as much 



The Use of Money is Spohen of. 201 

difference in things as in persons, and some peo 
pie know it. 

We are rich, mj boy, in our hearts — not in 
our breeches pockets. Ooffins have no money- 
drawers, and if they had, it is too dark to make 
change down there. We shall be rich in the next 
world, or we shall be poor. And that is the 
world we are striving for. The papers say a man 
died rich. The Book above does not say so. 
There is nothing to his credit there, and he will 
have many debts to pay in the hereafter. 
The papers say he died poor. That means, 
here below, that when the administrator held 
his convention, there were causes but no ef- 
fects. He died poor, and there were no law- 
suits to hallow his memory. And the world 
pitied him. And the cows eat the grass and 
weeds from his grave, for he was poor. And the 
little hillock over which the lonesome sexton 
wiped the perspiration from a tired brow, like a 

dissolving view, became a little hollow. Yes, 

9* 



202 The Use of Money is Spolcen of. 

Yalter, my boy, he died poor. That is — he was 
not in debt ! 

But in the other world, he is in good credit. 
He did not care to deposit in a land where the 
banks break twice a year, or pay in depreciated 
currency. And so he sent his fortune ahead — 
not all at once, as sailors iire a broadside, but a 
little at a time. He laid up treasure in heaven. 
Some of it was sent by a poor widow-woman, 
whose shanty down the road was no better than 
advice, to comfort her. A poor boy, without 
means to start in life and become a man before 
death, took to heaven an instalment for the man 
who died poor. And the sun reflected some of 
it right into the windows of heaven from the 
roof of an orphan asylum. And that poor old 
man, neglected and deserted by all save strangers, 
took a little Home with him. And the little 
which saved a friend from ruin, went there.. 
Little by little — day after day, it accumulated. 
On the rising prayer of the lone widow — by the 



The Use of Money is Spoken of. 203 

grateful thought of the starving orphan — by the 
ideas of the scholar, little by little, none the less 
sure, every dollar others thought was wasted on 
earth, went to heaven and brought to him a 
greater interest than ten per cent, a month in 
advance. 

You and us never know who die poor. ITone 
can tell the human heart, or where its treasures 
are. Riches are good, if we use them rightly. 
An idea will do to circulate — so will money. 
The circle is growing smaller and smaller, my 
boy. In a few days, we can stand in the centre 
and touch its farthest side. Then, Yalter, the 
heart which is crusted over with gold pieces, as 
shingles are put on a house, will go down into 
the horrible darkness feeling so sad, and so lonely, 
that even " He died rich" will seem like a bitter 
mockery to us. Do good, my boy. That is the 
.secret of life. Everything gives freely of its 
treasure but man, and everything else is happy. 
Cut the chain of care in twain, and let the sun of 



204 The Use of Money is SpoJcen of. 

generosity find your heart. Don't take your 
j^ money along, but send it ahead — and remember, 
Yalter, my boy, you will keep it company some 
day. So be careful where you send it. 



CHAPTEE XXIX. 




For Married Men, and their Wives, 

HY do so many persons frequent 
saloons and other places of resort 
nights?" 

Well, my boy, there are several 
reasons. Many frequent such places, but scarcely 
two from the same motive. The young men go 
there because they want fun. Married ones go to 
drown trouble. The old ones go because they 
have grown into the habit and cannot remain 
away. 

There are times, my boy, when the heart is 
very sad — when every leaf of its inner book is 



206 Married Men^ cmd tJieir Wwes. 

bitterness. There are men who have wives — 
who have dwelling-houses — yet who have no 
homes. Men are not divine. Humanity is the 
substance from which sorrow's picture is taken. 
Weary with the labor of the day — tired of the 
perpetual round of toil and never-ending drudg- 
ery, many a time the heart of a brave man goes 
down under the waves of trouble, and there is 
hardly a glimmer of light in his horizon of days 
or years. He goes home to meet his wife. He 
opens the gate and steps within the little enclos- 
ure which should contain his heart's treasure and 
the joy of his life. He ascends the steps. He 
turns the knob or lifts the latch. He is in the 
once hoped-for Avish of his life. There is no 
smile of welcome for him, but plenty for othei*s. 
The marital fortune is made ! The world is cold, 
^y t)oy. It is a grave moulded in ice — more 
inhospitable than though it were in an arctic 
iceberg. 

Men hunger for love. Men yearn for the kind- 



Ma/rried Men^ cmd their Wwes. 207 



ness and aifection which in dreams they have 
seen, and when they go to the well and no water 
is there, the heart becomes as lead and the spirit 
like the black wings of death. 

But few of us, Yalter, are really happy. There 
is a source of power in every piece of mechanism. 
There is a cause for joy or for grief in every 
heart. The world may not know it — it is 
no business of the world's what it is, but it is 
there. Men see the smiles their hearts crave, 
budding only for them, but full blossoming for 
others, and hell itself is paradise compared with 
th6 poignancy of sorrow which takes the soul 
captive. The prize they hoped for is not always 
there. The kind words they have waited till 
night for — have walked in weariness for — is not 
there when wanted. The sun wliich was in 
thought to have driven the sombre gloom fi'om 
the soul had no light or warmth for the one who 
needed it more than all the world beside. 

The world never sympathizes — never feels for 



208 Mmried Men^ cmd their Wwes, 

sorrow, but, like tlie prickly vine, sends its points 
into every heart to wound and torture, then gloat 
over the pain it has caused. 

It is the lack of home sympathy that drives 
men to places they would not otherwise frequent, 
my boy. It is the lack of the relying love they 
hunger for which makes the world endurable. 
It is the fact that when all looks dark to them, 
there is no home — ^no constancy of love — no firm 
anchor to the heart on which their ship can drag 
for an horn' till the storm is kissed or soothed 
away. 

We cannot, every one, be all in all to each 
other. There is but one God for us, my boy. 
There is never 1 ut one heart which seems like 
heaven. There are never but one pair of arms 
which can shield the sensitive heart from sorrow 
— there is never but one voice whose low melo- 
dies can enchant the spirit and rescue the weary 
soul from the gloomy captor in whose keeping it 
is for the time. And, my boy, when that hope 



Married Men^ and their Wives. 209 

fails — when the last harbor the storm-tossed voy- 
ager makes for is closed against him, or so 
crowded with others that there is no room for 
him, the darkness of midnight is noon — the howl- 
ings of the hurricane are zephyrs — the angry 
flashes of God's lightning but love-glances — the 
goadings of sorrowing despair the white arms of 
love by comparison. 

"We blame people too much. But few of us 
pity. Too many censure where they should keep 
silent if they cannot sympathize. It is not for us 
to censure — God does that. It is for us, my boy, 
to love and be true in heart. It is for us to dis- 
pel all the gloom we can. In the spring-time 
how carefully is the ground prepared for the seed 
or plant; and be it fruit or flower, every mo- 
ment's care and attention given it repays the 
kind hand and loving eye with its choicest 
riches in proportion to the love, care, and labor 
bestowed on it. 

"We cannot love too much if we love well. 



210 Married Men^ and their Wives. 

Heaven is love, and surely we cannot take too 
earnest lessons in the principles thereof. And, 
my boy, when you see a man away from his 
home — seeking elsewhere, not for pleasure, but 
for that in which sorrow can be drowned, deal 
not with him in thought too harshly. God 
knows he suffers enough, else the friends would 
be his earthly paradise and the vexations of the 
day which by night are harvested in a pile of 
trouble in his heart would be chased away by the 
love he needs to strengthen him for the morrow's 
toil. Men will not be long absent from those 
they love. It is not in nature. If they are ab- 
sent from choice, how desolate must be their 
hearts — ^how tear-calling their thoughts ! 

Men care too little for their wives. Wives 
care too little for their husbands. The heart 
that was once won is not kept. The pleasures 
of the chase have drowned out the enjoyment of 
the possession — the market once made, the win- 
dow is emptied of its attractions. 



Married Men^ and their Wives. 211 

And so we live on, my boy. The hills of hap- 
piness vanish into thin air — driven away by our 
own acts, and the plain over which we daily 
walk becomes a desert of arid thought — a road 
filled with dead-falls, for the reason that we are 
too busy performing for dead-heads in prefer- 
ence to paying patrons. There are a few in 
life who have learned the secret in the last sen- 
tence, and they are happy. Outside attractions 
dazzle not their eyes or lure their hearts — out- 
side threats have no terrors, and loved and loving 
they go on to eternity in happiness. 




^HB^K^S^^^^i^^^^^^H^^^^Ni 


>v-^^ 


sp 




CHAPTEK XXX. 
In which Boys and Apprentices are Spoken of 

AND TO. 

I ALTER, my boy, there is no doubt 
but that you started in life as many 
other boys start, with a desire 
at some future day to be a man. 
That, my boy, is a good target to shoot at, but 
somehow or other lots of boys miss by shooting 
too quick. Much good powder is wasted by such 
foolishness — much game is flushed and flown by 
over-eagerness. You have just started out on 
the road of life. It is a hard one to travel. 
You and us, my boy, have both passed by several 



Apprentices are Spoken of. 213 

annual mile-stones — we have passed by the most 
— ^have seen the most joy and sadness — ^the most 
success and failure as yet, my boy. 

You are learning a trade. That is a good 
thing to have — it is better than gold — ^brings a 
larger premium. But to bring a premium, the 
trade must be perfect — no plated-silver affair. 
When you go to learn a trade, do so with a de- 
termination to win. Make up your mind what 
you will be, and be it. Do not whiffle around, 
but hold your upper lip close down, and labor for 
the future. Determine in your mind to be a 
good workman, or let the job out. A botch is 
not only a disgrace to his profession, but he is a 
disgrace to himself and a mighty poor advertise- 
ment for his father. 



Bide your time, 
Learn to wait. 

Learn to labor — 
Trust in fate. 



214 Apprentices are Spoken of. 

Ever honest — 
Keep your pluck. 

Ever faithful- 
Trust in luck. 

It is easy to succeed if you but will it. Have 
pluck and patience. Look out for the interests 
of your employer — thus you will learn to look 
out for your own. Keep an eye out, and do not 
wait to be told everything. Kemember. That 
is a big word, my boy, in the dictionary of 
success. Act as though you wished to learn, 
and some one — no matter who, will show you 
how. Learning a trade is different from eating 
mush and milk. Mechanical education does not 
slip down without chewing. If you have an 
errand to do, do not move as if you were training 
a sloth, but start off like a boy with some life. 
Acquire the habit of activity, if you have it not. 
Look about you. See how the best workman in 
the shop does — copy from him. 

And, Yalter, my boy, learn to do things well. 



Apprentices a/re Spoken of. 215 

Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing 
well. IN'ever slight your work — never. Every 
job you do* is a sign. Poor signs are useless for 
good. If you have done a job in ten minutes, try 
and see if you cannot do the next one in nine. 
But, my boy, never be in too great haste. Too 
many boys spoil a lifetime, by not having 
patience. They work at a trade until they see 
about one- half of its mysteries, then strike for 
higher wages. 

We hate a Rat. 

A rat, my boy, is the mechanic who has half 
leai'ned his trade, and then works at half regular 
wages. Such folks are poor eggs. We see them 
every day — men who are to their professions 
what a wart is on the hand — a three-legged chair 
at a prayer-meeting — a lame horse in an elope- 
ment. If you undertake to learn, do it. Learn 
well, or not at all. Be a workman or a corpse — 
do not, for your own sake, be a botch, only able 
to earn half wages, and never able to keep a 



216 AjfyprerUices are Spoken of. 

situation longer than it takes a goose to hatch a 
family. A poor hand among good ones is worse 
off than the fifth calf. For the sake of a year's 
time, do not lose the entire future. When learn- 
ing a trade, my boy, don't move like a rusty 
watch. Act as if your interest and the interest 
of your employer were the same. Employers 
will not willingly lose good employes. Be honest 
and faithful. There is the secret of success, my 
boy, and that is the great thing lacking with too 
many. And, Yalter, my boy, never get above 
your business, nor take style too thick. 

Never leave the table hungry if there is enough 
to eat. It spoils the day for labor. Never leave 
a girl half sparked. Some amateur will com- 
mence where you left off, and away goes your 
sweetness on the deserted heir. Never chop a 
stick of wood half into and then leave it — never 
draw a bucket of water half-way out of a well 
and then let it back — never half learn a trade. 
All such transactions are labor lost, and show 



Ajpprentices are Spoken of. 217 

very thin brains. If you play, play for " keeps," 

in such matters. If you are aiming to be 

a man, be one, or quit. If you are learning a 

trade or profession, learn the whole of it. When 

you commence being man, it is time you left 

off being boy, to a certain extent. It looks 

bad to pick the raisins out of pies and leave the 

rest, but that is not so indicative of a platter-head 

as to see one of these half-hatched mechanics or 

professors, not able to do a job of work without 

an instructor. 

Good mechanics are the props of society. 

They are those who stuck to their trades until 

they learned them. Poor ones are living 

nuisances — and they are the rats who quit in 

boyhood from over-smartness. Go slow and sure, 

my boy — ^that is the only safe way. People 

always speak well of a boy who minds his own 

business — who is willing to work, and who seems 

disposed to be somebody in time. This is a 

queer world — many people are watching us, my 

10 



218 Ajpjprentices are Spoken of. 

boy, and help often comes when and from where 
we least expect it. Confidence is the safe in 
which men often deposit rich treasures, and as 
you and us, my boy, prove worthy, so will we be 
rewarded. And, Yalter, since the day God look- 
ed upon the work of His six days and said He 
was well pleased, man has had the fullest liberty 
to exult over his success. God used those words 
for some purpose, and if He felt a pleasure in 
saying what He had done, how much it prom- 
ises for all who build a monument, be it high or 
low, and from its summit themselves behold the 
crowd following along in the path they have 
carved out, or climbing the steps they have care- 
fully erected ! There is a rich reward in success, 
which none but those who strive can ever enjoy. 



«L«Mi 



^^^m^^m^-^^ 



^j^mi^ 




CHAPTER XXXI. 

Wherein my Boy is counselled to Mind his own 
Business. 

HE great trouble is, my boy, that 
people pay more attention to the 
affairs of others than to their own. 
Man's head is not double-barrelled 
like a shot-gun. God gave every man a head of 
his own, and he who attends to his own business 
has enough to keep him busy forever. People 
are like wasps. Society is a sugar-barrel with 
the sweetness taken out. Meddlers go buzzing 
and bunting their heads againgt the soured sides. 
There are thousands who know nothing of their 
own business, but know all about the concerns of 



220 Minding one^s own Business. 

their neighbors. We all despise such folks, yet 
fall into their errors. We say they are fools — 
and they are, my boy — and yet adopt their 
peculiarities. Each man has a duty — it is 
to himself, and through himself he benefits 
others. 

Tearing another's character to pieces will not 
help ours. Pointing out the weeds in your yard 
will not make the weeds in our yard more beau- 
tiful. Censuring others publicly for faults we 
are guilty of privately, will make us no better, 
nor ever elevate society to a higher plane than is 
now occupied by it. 

There is no perfection on earth, Yalter. The 
rainbow is but a part. The day is half night. 
The sun gives the shade. The deeper the water 
the more beautiful the reflection — but it is not 
the more perfect. There is no picture without a 
background. What we condemn in others are 
the faults to be found in our own hearts. Where 
others have failed in part, you and us might have 



Minding one's own Business. 221 

failed totally. Every street is full 5f filtli. 
Every fence is full of nails. Tear the boards or 
pickets off, and the rusty heads protrude to rend 
the beautiful garments which in turn cover men- 
tal deformity. The white cottage and the brown 
mansion hide trouble from the world. If walls 
could speak, thousands who now listen would 
stop their ears in anguish. If the whole truth of 
each of our lives was known, few are there living 
who would not seek a strange land. If each act 
of life was engraven on the forehead, thick veils 
would be worn by men and women, and their 
dying requests would be to refrain from lifting 
or removing them. 

People talk, my boy, and know not whereof 
they speak. They retail slanders and scandal, to 
show how foul is the dish most palatable to 
them. Let you and us, my boy, walk straight 
along. The path is narrow. Brambles border 
our road on either side. If we do not stop to 
rest on their points, little will they molest us. 



222 Minding ones own Business. 

Let us each miud om* owu business, and you nor 
us will ever be out of employ. * * 

Did you notice the guide-board we just passed, 
Yalter, my boy ? For years has it stood there, 
truthfully pointing the way. !No harm has it 
ever done. Some wanton fool, from a kicking 
old gun, sent a charge of shot, marring, pepper- 
ing, and scarring its truthful face. As fools with 
loaded guns passed, unable to find game, each 
one let fly one or both barrels, to see if he could 
not add a few black marks to the honest board. 
There was no cause for this wantonness. Make 
the comparison, my boy. Many a man — many 
an honored woman — ^has stood for years, the tar- 
get of slander, yet swerved not from the strict 
line of right and honor. It seems, my boy, as if 
every prominent object, animate or inanimate, 
must be the mark for fools to fire at. 

There is a secret in everything. We cannot 
tell why the wind blows, why the snow falls, 
why God exists, why eternity is endless, why 




" As fools with loaded guns passed, unable to find game, 
each one let fly one or both barrels, to see if he could not 
add a few black marks to the honest board."— Parye 222. 



Minding one's own Business. 223 

frost locks and heat unlocks the bountiful store- 
house of Nature ; whv man came on earth, why 
he leaves it ; why birds are hatched and babies 
are born, why flowers bloom and trees decay, 
why water flows and earth is firm, why night is 
dark and day is light, why vice follows civiliza- 
tion as a child followeth its mother, why death 
follows disease, why strife follows anger or love 
follows friendship, why disgust often follows in- 
diiference and revenge follows insult, why old 
age follows manhood, success exertion, want 
prodigality, or hope follows fear ; why man does 
this or fails to do that. It is enough for us, my 
boy, to know that these things are so. There is 
a secret reason for every action, a secret chamber 
in every heart ; and we should thank God that 
we have even the ability to mind our own busi- 
ness, whether others do or not. 

And remember, as we walk along through life, 
that random shots are never counted, and that 
the targets oftenest fired at are the most promi- 



224 Molding one's own Business. 

nent ones. Remember this, and that he who 
minds his o'^n business builds a wall about him- 
self which no shafts can penetrate ; and remem- 
bering this, one secret of success and happiness 
is yours, my boy. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 




In which we Speak of Something that Concerns 
Somebody. 

|ALTEE, my boy, never drive a set- 
ting hen from her nest. Kever pull 
up a plant that is growing, in or- 
der to see why it does not grow 
faster. Let well enough alone. Some flowers 
bloom earlier than others — but, my boy, it is not 
the early fruit that lasts the longest. A quick 
word is less terrible than nurtured anger. The 
snow that melts as it falls is not the snow which 
freezes the child and man. A man seldom knows 
when he is well off. The disposition of the heart 

is to err — to wander — to worry over lesser evils, 
10* 



226 Something that Concerns So^nebody. 

till at last it is wedded to the very troubles it 
hoped to avoid. If you have a good thing, stick 
to it. Do not let go of a cord to grasp a cable. 
So long as the cord holds, it is all you want. If 
you are near the earth, and the cord breaks, you 
will not be greatly injured by the fall. If far 
above, the risk of catching the cable is equal to 
that of the breaking of the cord. 

If your home is happy, stick to it. If your 
heart be right now, keep it so. If you have one 
true friend, cling to him or her. Many a man 
and woman have hosts of false friends. If you 
have a plan that promises success, work it out. 
If you know one heart that is true to you, do not 
lose the love therein by act or word — ^by sin of 
omission or commission. Do not move away from 
trouble merely because it exists. If you cannot 
conquer it on your own grounds, you cannot 
elsewhere. To fly is to fear ; to fear is to court 
defeat ; to court defeat is to be unworthy a good 
name. 



Something that Concerns Somebody. 227 

In love or business it is the same. The sun- 
glass burns into the hardest wood in time — only 
hold it steadily. You may see in a friend that 
which is not quite right. Would your next 
friend be more perfect ? You may have failures 
in business — would a new battle with strangers 
be better for you ? You may lose a few friends — 
are not the ones who are tried and true of more 
account than all the world ? If your bed rests 
you, it is a good one, even though coarse and 
plain. It may not suit others — but if it suits you, 
keep it. Do not throw away a dime because it 
is not a dollar. The dollar, when gained, may 
be bogus ; and if the dime supplies your wants, 
what more ? Prove that which you love. If it 
has served you well, do not part with it. If not, 
let it go without a murmur. There is a mate for 
everything but despair. The flowers peep out 
from behind rocks — they lift their dewy faces to 
the light, and nod to each other. The tiniest one 
that blooms is as fragrant as the largest, in pro 



228 Something that Concerns Somebody, 

portion, and often more fragrant. The drop 
falling in the river vreds its mate, and passes 
on. The breeze from the bower, bearing away 
the zephyr, is content with its choice. The ivy, 
clinging to the oak, is satisfied — for the oak will 
surely uphold in every storm. The willow bends 
low to toy with the bird — each to the other a 
friend. The grass stoops to kiss the stream — it 
kisses it again and again — it pillows itself on the 
icy shroud in winter — it retires from the world in 
January, and drinks from its hidden life in happi- 
ness — ^it throws its points of love far over and 
into the rippling wavelet in summer again, and 
each lives in the other constantly. The stream 
gives life to the blade — the blade shields its pet 
ripple from the glare of the sun, as the love of a 
true woman shields and protects the heart of him 
chosen beneath the trysting-tree, from all his fel- 
lows. Remove the plant, and the laugh of the 
rill dies by evaporation — its voice will never be 
heard in the great roar of the sea — turn aside the 



Something that Concerns Somebody. 229 

stream, and the blade withers and sinks in sor- 
row to the earth. 

Have jou one friend ? How many there are 
who have none ! Is that one friend true ? 
AVhat more is necessary ? Heaven has but one 
GrOD. The year has but one summer. Life is 
not all vernal. The watch has but one main- 
spring. The voice has but one echo. Life hath 
but one death. The needle points to but one 
l^orth. The heart will live in such happiness 
that the world may well envy it, if it basks in 
the spiritual sunshine of one counterpart. Wait. 
Have patience. The dimes will be dollars, if 
not by growth, by premium ! The shadow which 
is at your feet now is moving steadily away 
from you. The great resting-place is drawing 
nigh. Do not risk a certainty for an uncer- 
tainty. 

Look about you, my boy, and see if there be 
not many others in worse plight than yoursell*. 
Your home may not be a palace, but it is a 



230 Something that Concerns Somebody. 

home. What more do you want ? Learn to 
love that which you have. Learn to bide your 
time. There is a day for every night. If there 
are six months of darkness, six months of light 
are sure to follow ! Be a man. Deserve success. 
Be true to your heart and to your word — ^be true 
to your friends and to your purpose. This is the 
great secret of life. How few know it, my boy ! 
What if the world laughs at you ? Does the 
world have terrors for you? Are you not the 
equal of your fellow ? God alone rewards. The 
teacher, not the scholars like yourself, is the one 
who punishes. 

Learn to succeed in great things by succeeding 
in little ones. Learn to be happy in well-doing. 
Study to make a bower in but one place in the 
wilderness. Plant your roses and ivies in but 
one place — water them — care for them — watch 
them — think of them — protect them, and never 
will you lack for a dear resting-place. Wait. 
Go slow. Learn the road. Study life. See 



Smnething that Concerns Somebody. 231 

Low few of God's children succeed, see how few 
are happy. See how few are contented. Con- 
tentment is the anchor of life. Ambition the 
spur. When the storm comes, seek shelter. 
When all is pleasant, beautify your home with- 
out. When the heart of her or him you love is 
sad, chase the gloom away — smother it in kisses 
or care. When the heart is glad, rejoice with it, 
and revel in the sunshine you have helped create ! 
Haste is not speed. The glare of the sun is not 
as sweet as the evening zephyr. The queen is 
not happier than the cottager. The desert is not 
as attractive as the oasis. The ocean is grand, 
but a home by the rivulet is dearer, my boy. 




CHAPTEK XXXIII. 



We Converse on how Men may Succeed. 




XTER, my boj, do you realize that 
each year the grave is nearer you 
than ever before — that unless you 
are active, the season of life will 
close before even half your self-allotted contract 
will have been performed, unless, like too many 
people, you have no aim — no hope — no ambition 
beyond picking your teeth after dinner? Half 
of the world — yes, Yalter, more than half — ^go to 
the reception-room of eternity without any ob- 
ject in life — as drift-wood floats down the stream, 
guided by the current, and lodging against the 



How Men may Sv^ceed. 233 

first obstruction. And what is drift-wood, my 
boy ? Once in a while a good stick of timber is 
found therein, but it is generally more work to 
haul it out, clean off the sand and mud, than it is 
worth; and more time and tools are spoiled in 
making it into what you wish than the stick will 
ever bring, even in an active market. 

Have a purpose, my boy. Live for something. 
Make up your mind what you will be, and come 
up to the mark, or die in the attempt. This is a 
land where there is no stint to ambition. All 
have an equal chance. Blood tells— pluck wins 
— honor and integrity well directed will scale the 
highest rock, and bear a heavy load to its top. 
Do not start off in life without knowing where 
you are going. Load for the game you are hunt- 
ing. It is as easy to be a man as a mouse. It 
is as easy to have friends as enemies — it is easier 
to have both than to go through life like a tar- 
bucket under a wagon, bumping over stumps, or 
swinging right and left, without a will of your 



234 How Men may Succeed. 

own. Every one can be something. There is 
enough to do. There are forests to fell — rivers 
to explore — cities to build — railroads to construct 
— inventions yet to be studied out — ideas to ad- 
vance — men to convert — countries to conquer — 
women to love — offices to be filled — w:ealth and 
position to acquire — a name to win — a heaven to 
reach. Yes, my boy, there is lots of work to do, 
and you and us must do our share. 

The world is wide, and its owner is God. If 
you wish to be somebody, " pitch in." The brave 
always have friends. Where there is a will 
there is a way. Where others have gone you can 
go. And, Yalter, my boy, if the old track don't 
suit — make a new one — somebody will walk it. 
Success is never obtained in a country like this, 
without effort. If you fail once, try it again. 
If you fall down, get up aga'n. If it is dark, 
strike a light. If ^''ou are in the shade, move 
around, for if there is a shade on one side, there 
is sunshine on the other ! 



H(yw Men ma/y Succeed. 235 

If your seat is too hard to sit on, stand up. 
If a rock rises before you, roll it away, blast it, 
or climb over it. It takes longer to skin an ele- 
phant than a mouse — ^but the skin is worth some- 
thing. Never be content with doing what 
another has done — excel him. If an enemy 
gets in your way, knock him down, or push him 
aside. Deserve success, and it will come. The 
boy is not born a man. The sun does not rise 
like a rocket, or go down like a bullet fired from 
a gun. Slowly but surely, it makes its rounds, 
and never tires. It is as easy to be a leader as a 
wheel-horse, and you are then always the first in 
town. If the job be long, the pay will be greater 
— ^if the task be hard, the more competent you 
must be to do it. 

And then, my boy, always be honorable. 
Keep your word or give a good excuse. If you 
owe a man, pay him, if it takes all you have. If 
you cannot pay — ^you can say so at once. Do to 
others as you would be done by. Punish en- 



How Men may Succeed, 

emies and reward friends. If jou do not punish 
enemies, no one will fiear you — if you fail to 
reward friends, we pity the selfishness of your 
heart. If you make a promise, keep it. If 
others betray you, teach them better ; but on no 
provocation become a betrayer. If you have a 
secret, keep it closely^ — if it is the secret of an- 
other, watch it even more closely than your own. 
There can be no excuse for a betrayal of con- 
fidence — no apology that can be sufficient. If 
you are in hard luck, wear it out. If you can 
help a friend, always do it, if he is worthy — if 
you cannot, do not insult him in the manner of 
refusal. A little word, act, or look, when the 
heart is sore, lingers as does the fragrance of the 
rose long after the vase is broken. If you are 
right, maintain it. If wrong, never be ashamed 
to own it. Keep your head above water, no 
matter how deep the stream or swift the current 
— somebody will help you. Do not grumble, 
fret, or whine. Dogs whine. It is as easy to be 



How Men ma/y Succeed. 237 

cheerful as to snarl, and a good-natured man 
always makes the handsomest corpse. 

Do not change your business every time you 
have the blues — change is not always beneficial. 
If you have been cheated, do not, to get even, 
cheat some one else. If you have made a bad 
bargain — do not stop trading, but try to make a 
better one next time. If you get into a scrape, 
extricate yourself, and look closer next time — 
never be caught twice in the same trap. People 
may forgive errors, but they have no sympathy 
for fools. If you wish to be a leader — always go 
ahead — and remember that the smoother the 
route you select, the less complaining there will 
be among your followers ; and above all, Yalter, 
my boy, no matter what the circumstances, never 
be the first to desert your friends. Be honest 
and faithful — God and good fortune will never 
desert you long. 






CHAPTEK XXXIV 



We Talk of Things we ought not to Talk of. 




|ALTEE, my boy, it is late to-night. 
We have been out in the cold a 
long distance, and have passed 
many dwellings. And, my boy, 
do you remember the neat white house, just by 
where we met the fancy dog with his pretty 
blanket ? 

" What, the house where the folks were quar- 
relling ? " 

Take care, my boy, that is not it ! You speak 
too plainly! That was not quarrelling — only 
the good wife scolding. That is her way. She 
C'.annot help being sharp with her tongue, no 



Things we ought not to Talk of. 239 

more than a lame horse can help limping. A 
few years since, when she was led to the altar, a 
blushing bride, she never thought of such a thing. 
She was a sweetheart then. She wanted a hus- 
band. She got one — a good man, but like all 
people, with some faults. And do you know, 
Yalter, my boy, that God never made but one 
perfect ! She loved her husband, but the trouble 
was, when one was vexed — the other became more 
so, and the kisses soon changed to tart words, and 
the heart became crusted over with a sort of dead 
feeling, as the pail of water, when the night is 
cold, grows a coat of ice. 

" That is what makes folks miserable?" 
Yes, Yalter, my boy, the dead feeling is what 
does it ? The husband married his wife because 
he loved her. He married that woman when a 
girl, because he wanted a heart to confide in — a 
bosom on which to rest his aching head when 
weary with business — her soft hand to pet him — 
her warm kisses to re-nerve him with new life — ■ 



240 Things we ought Twt to Talk, of, 

her smiles to welcome him home — her look of 
love when the heart was too happy to speak — ^her 
prayer for him when tempted — ^her loved person 
to care for, guard, and protect with the holy love 
a true man feels. But, Yalter, my boy, the cold 
word startled him. It was an ice-water bath 
when warm with love, and his heart took in one 
of its feelers. Then, when the next cross word 
came, it was colder. His heart shrank back still 
fm-ther. The dream of youth was not realized. 
The treasure his heart had carried so long and far 
to the bridal, melted little by little, as ice melts 
in the summer sun, and his hopes ran out in such 
little streams that they were all lost ! 

ITow, my boy, he lives there in that white 
house. She gives him more scoldings than 
kisses, and he is waiting. Home is not pleasant 
to either. He comes to its sacred portals late ^ 
night, because other places are more inviting. 
While away, he escapes the words which make 
his heart sad, and over the maddening bowl 



Thmgs we ought not to Talk of. 241 

loses sorrow in oblivious torpor. Neither are 
happy— neither have the courage to start anew— 
or to love each other and be happy again. He 
married an angel— she was but a woman ! She 
married a man— he was but human I 
" This world don't amount to much." 
That is so, in one sense, my boy— you and I 
are but atoms— less than grains of sand. But 
few, if any, really love us— we live a few years— 
die-are buried to be got rid of-and the world 
goes on as before. Those we loved forget us- 
our hopes die with us— the labor of a life is lost 
—the dream of youth is gradually stripped of 
its beautiful visions— and we are dead. We may 
live in white houses and not be happy. The one 
we love, by unkind words may chill the heart 
only too fondly her own. Woman was made to 
love. That is her mission— her wealth— her 
heaven. Man was made to protect— to love— to 
cherish. His hand is hard and against every 
man's. His heart grows cold and metallic as it 



24:2 Things we ought not to Talk of. 

is knocked about from day to day — his head be- 
comes wrinkled as trouble lights upon it. Yet 
he labors on and is happy. All he wants is to 
fully realize that he is working for some one. If 
he is a selfisli man, he works for himself alone. 
If he is really noble, he labors for one who re- 
pays his labor by her love, and is happy. But, 
my boy, when the one he worships allows her 
lips to furnish tarts instead of kisses, his heart 
loses courage. Woman never speaks harshly to 
the one she loves, and man knows it. The man 
never forgets himself and speaks in angry tones 
to the chosen one from all the world, until love 
has raised anchor and is ready to fly. 



CHAPTER XXXY. 



We find Where to Look for Happiness. 




|ALTEE, my boy, the old chap who 
made adages said, that a contented 
mind was a continual feast. He 
was a very good adage-maker, but 
his advice was much as would be that of a man 
who might give you a safe full of money, and not 
tell you how to unlock it. The chief end of man 
is happiness. But very few men are happy, my 
boy. That is, they are not happy to-day, but 
expect the full measure of bliss to-morrow. To- 
morrow is a great day, Yalter. One to-morrow 
has more of fear or more of happiness than all 



244 Where to Look for Houppmeas. 

the to-days ever almanacked. We all look for 
happiness — not in the present, but in the future — 
and, my boy, we are all wrong. Happiness 
makes us enjoy hfe. We can all be happy if we 
will. Care is the huge grindstone which wears 
us away. The knife does not wear by use — it 
is by grinding. Throw care and fretting to the 
winds. Il^ow is the time to be happy. What is 
the use of waiting till another day dawns % 

" How can we help waiting ? " 

Easy enough, my boy. Keep the heart right. 
That is the first point. If you see a man in 
trouble, help him oat, if you can. If not, do not 
push him into deeper water. If you are tempted 
to do a mean act, stop and think how it will be- 
little you. If you see trouble, alleviate it. If 
you see a man in danger, tell him of it. Plant 
good seed — reap good crops. Be kind to others. 
Follow the golden rule. Make up your mind to 
be happy — the rest is easy enough. We have 
but very little real trouble. Most of it is im- 



WJiere to Look for Hajypiness. 245 

aginary. We become nervous and fretful, and 
weeds of care overrun the garden of the heart, 
where they should never be allowed to take 
root. 

JS'ow is the time to be happy. Think of the 
blessings, not of the curses. Look on your 
successes, not on your failures. Thousands fail 
' — any one can do that ; but to succeed requires 
a man of pluck, muscle, and ambition. So long 
as we have health we should be happy. And if 
sick we might be worse off, my boy. If we have 
but a dollar — we might have none. If but one 
suit of clothes — we might be a hundred per cent, 
worse off. If an eye has been lost by accident, 
remember that the head might have gone, for 
all you could do to prevent. If in battle, and 
a cannon-ball just misses your head, think how 
lucky that you were short. If it goes through 
your heart, a lingering sickness and sorrowful 
death-bed scene have been escaped. If you 
have one friend left, that is better than to have 



246 Where to Look for Happiness, 

none — if you have none, you will not be be- 
trayed, or you can make friends. There is no 
man so mean but some one will love him. Be 
happy in tliinking of what you have — not in 
what you want. Let envy go to the wind. 
Think how much better off you are than a score 
who started in lifo with you. Think how much 
better off than you might be. Don't let trifles 
worry you. Keep a stiff upper lip, and a close 
lower one. The lower lip is the one you should 
guard — it does the talking. 

It is easy to be happy if ]^ou wish to be, my 
boy. Gold watches — fast horses — iron fences — 
monthly dividends — Brussels cai-pets — rosewood 
doors — marble-top bureaus — eight-story houses — ■ 
silver napkin-rings — squeaking shoes — poodle 
dogs — wine suppers — palatial residences, and such 
gewgaws, although nice to have, are not essential 
to happiness. If you are single, my boy, you can 
be happy in seeking some one to love you. But 
do not be in too great haste to better your condi- 



Where to Looh for Hapj^iess. 247 

tion. Go slow. You will see more of the 
country — may like it better. A well-trained 
mind — a kind heart, will make every one happy. 
If you have not these things, cultivate them. 
Make a little heaven in your heart and see how 
nice it is. Do not care what others say of you. 
If they flatter, try and come up to their mark of 
adulation — if they condemn, give them no more 
reason — if they censure wrongfully, it is a blessed 
thing to know somebody besides yourself is in 
error. Look around, my boy, and see if there is 
not some little spot where you can plant a kind 
word. It will bring forth a rich crop. See if 
there is not some breeze passing which will 
waft a kiss to one you love. See if there is 
not a place vacant where you can hide a good 
action. See if you cannot by word, look, or 
deed, brighten the heart of some one more mis- 
erable than yourself. Do these and be happy. 
And all can do those little things. We are made 
in the image of God, and surely, when He has 



248 Where to Look for Hajcypmess. 

placed happiness here on earth, we ought to help 
ourselves. Never care to look at the dark side 
of a picture. If there is no bright side to it, 
look on another one. If there is no bright side 
to any of them, paint one, even if with a white- 
wash brush. Make up your mind to be happy at 
all events — to take trouble as it comes, and part 
with it as it goes, and you will be fat and hearty 
twenty-five years after your grouty neighbor has 
put on his wooden overcoat. 





CHAPTEK XXXYI. 




Another Week Gone. 

|Y the light of the stars lay it away 

in Time's grave. Another week— 

another Saturday night — another 

flake covering the past with its 

mantle of forgetfnlness. Another balance-sheet 

for or against lis. Another seed planted over 

onr grave to bring forth a flower around which 

beauty shall linger, or a gnarled tree under 

which vermin shall gather. Saturday night is 

the cream of the week. The stamp aflixed to 

our weekly deeds. A stepping-stone in the bed 

of the Great Kiver. It is a round in the lad- 
II* 



250 Another Weeh Gone. 

der leading to heaven or perdition. It is a tear 
which washes away the storms of the week, or 
burns its blistering way into the soul. 

Let us rest to-night, weary toiler. Sit you 
down and be happy. Leave your head at your 
place of business, and bring your heart to the 
hearth and fender. l!^ot your worldly heart, but 
the one yet fresh in memory. Sit by the fire, be 
it of coal or wood. What a battle life is ! How 
few of us realize the warfare ! We hardly know 
who our friends are. What a blessing that the 
grave has no eyes ! How the hand of time closes 
its grasp to-night, bearing its wondi'ous gathering 
to God ! What a medley to present to Him ! 
Good acts and bad acts. Old age and childhood. 
Men, maids, and matrons — hopes, fears, promises 
kept and broken, hates^ injuries, tears, sobs, sighs, 
smiles, rejoicings, pain, pleasure, sin, and good- 
ness, all woven together like a tangled skein 
unravelled by a glance from that Wondrous Eye. 

* * * The hill is steep — its sides 



Another Week Gone. 251 

are rough to the feet, and its tracks dangerous. 
Look back — down its slopes and juttings — over 
the memories of the past and into the vault of 
shadows wherein lie torn and bleeding the hopes 
which led you through the lanes of childhood into 
the broad road of life. Hope lives forever, but 
her children die one by one ! Here and there 
they di'op off as we toil upward to the great gate 
whiere stands a sentry of our own choosing. 

* « * Ygt there is much to live 
for. Not for ourselves but for others. Human- 
ity, in the integral, is but an infinitesimal sand, 
not worth living for. But we can live for others. 
Under a million roofs to-night, side by side sit- 
ting, are young hearts fitting out their frail barks 
for voyages on an ocean far more tempestuous 
than ever was the billowy waste grandly rolling 
its defiance between distant shores. Side by side 
to-night all over the land lovers sit, thankful that 
the labors of the week are ended, happy in turn- 
ing and anticipating the apple the flavor of 



352 AnotJier Week Gone. 

which is not yet fully known. Another down- 
ward turn to the light. Closer and yet closer the 
hearts as nearer come the chairs. The watch 
within us lays its seconds away — making up its 
bundle of shadows against another Saturday night. 

* -sf * 'pj^g ggg^ q£ iifg |g smoothed by 

love. Heart readings or attempts — ^lips meet — 
the summit Is reached — the word is spoken — the 
apple is plucked, and life dates, not from birth, 
but from Saturday night. * * * 

* * ^ How fruits differ in flavor ! 
Some are luscious to the taste. Some are dry, 
hard, tasteless, and unsatisfactory. Good to the 
eye, but a little indescribable something makes 
the beautiful apple but a cake of ashes. Life is 
an apple which is long growing but soon decays. 
Over the stepping-stones like this night, from the 
cradle so far on the road to the grave, we have 
carried our apple, waiting for a chance to eat it 
alone instead of dividing it with those who in 
turn would divide with us. 



Another Week Gone. 253 

What is the influence that draws people into 
themselves and away from others? Whence 
comes the unseen hand that beckons hearts to 
wander off in the byw^ays of solitude and live 
within little castles of their own building — cells 
of selfishness — instead of mixing with the crowd 
hurrying on, anxious to reach — ^vhatf 

Why not look over the past, and guide better 
for the future from the resting-place given us by 
the clicking of the reel which marks His seconds 
— our weeks ? There is so much done which 
ought not to have been done. So much left un- 
done. Somehow • the thread of life is wound up 
full of dirt and uneven places, no matter how- 
straight and perfect we intend it to be. We reel 
it too fast. Down in the heart is a hidden power. 
Who of us all can solve the nnystery ? The heart 
is not a golden cloud, but a wide reach of prairie 
where grow some beautiful flowers — many deli- 
cate grasses — numerous gnarled shrubs fit only 
for ugly clubs, with here and there a fruit-bear- 



254 Another Week Gone. 

ing tree — a well from which others can drink — 
a bower where the weary can recline — a vine un- 
der which loved ones can sit — a lofty, firmly root- 
ed oak, from whose branches climbers can see 
far out over the country — an occasional evergreen 
which will recall us to the minds of those who 
follow us from stone to stone on the way we 
all are wending. 

* * * Let us pull up the shrubs 
which have no beauty — cultivate the flow- 
ers which breathe forth no fragrance, and 
plant the waste with vines — with trees which 
bear good fruit — with oaks rising high and 
strong, toying with the tempest and kissing the 
clouds rolling over them — with evergreens which 
shall mark our resting-place and cause others to 
say that we did not live in vain. Some of us 
can plant vines — some flowers — some tall trees — 
some of us the apple which shall be an apple of 
life — others the evergreen which shall keep the 
sun and storms from the marble visiting-card we 



Another Week Gone, 255 

invariably leave behind when going on the long 
journey. * * * 

But to-niglit and to-morrow. Eenew your 
love and energies against the trials of the un- 
known week. We would see all men happy. 
There are a million homes in the land where 
should be more happiness than there is, if men 
would but break away from the vice-like influ- 
ences which surround them. Look back from to- 
night and then resolve for the future. Let the 
rich be more generous to the poor, and the poor 
be truer to themselves. There are too few 
homes — too many pictureless walls in the land. 
Eest to-night. Save the surplus earnings of the 
week, hard-palmed, honest laborer, whose earnest 
friend we are, no matter what tongue you speak, 
or from what counti^ you came. 

A thousand kind words might have been 
spoken, but were not. A thousand little luxuries 
might have been bought, but you would not thus 
use your earnings. Into the cesspool of revelry 



256 Another Week Gone, 

glides many a week of labor, leaving poverty, 
want, sickness, and unhappiness where should be 
love, plenty, and contentment. If for no one else, 
be a man for your own sake. Do right for the 
golden reward it always brings. Be a man. 
Stand and let the crowd rush on to the breakers 
which line the far shores of dissipation and care- 
less expenditures. Begin the week with money 
in your pocket — happiness in your heart — the 
smiles of those around you — the good wishes of 
friends — the glorious renewal of faith in life 
which results from being a man. Then you will 
enjoy many others as you should and will this 
Sattjbday night. 





CHAPTER XXXYII. 



Happy New Year. 




T is midnight! Like a strange 
dream, warped with troubles and 
woofed with blood, the year eigh- 
teen hundred and sixty-five has 
vanished over the brink of the Great Preci- 
pice and around the corner — the bend in the 
stream of time — with merry bells we hear the 
coming of the Happy 'New Year. Still clinging 
to the bank while so many have gone by and 
down forever, waiting for the wave which shall 
unloose our hold, let us, in fancy, weave a man- 
tle of silk from the dirty, blood-stained rags of 



258 Swp^y New Year. 

the past, thrown aside as the annual tyrant 
leaped into the pit of his own making, and let 
us also moss-plant the bank whereon we sit 
and wait for the leap to the echoless shore. 

How like a strange di'eam ! How the shadows 
of the past rise before us to warn or bless, as 
we who live traced our acts on the hard steel 
of memorj^s plate. Over the land there lies a 
mantle of snow, white as the forgiveness of 
God, as if lowered from the cerulean dome to 
teach man that most beautiful of all lessons. 
The snow covers the earth. The dark spots and 
ugly places are hidden beneath the Great Man- 
tle, and the IS^ew Year comes to us, clad in 
the garment of peace once again. 

Happy I^ew Yeae ! How unlike its prede- 
cessor, which has left on the heart so many and 
varied pictures of life, death, sorrow, and hap- 
piness ! How many the changes one brief year 
has wrojight! This is God's Saturday night — • 
the closing of one of His weeks, with its mil- 



Happy New Yea/r. 259 

lions of histories woven into a record for the 
futm-e, from the gossamer of the present, as 
it floated by like meaningless froth on foaming 
billows. 

One short year ! It seems but like yesterday 
since we stood at the christening of the one 
now dead, and on its threshold laid our varied 
gifts — a bundle of plans, hopes, promises, and 
expectations for that future so many are ever 
dreading. 

The lovers have forgotten the birthday of 
the year now dead, and the hopes they in love 
ushered in when the bells rang out the Happy 
New Year. The bashful boy — the^ wooing man, 
have stepped forth on the deck of the won- 
drous boat. The blushing girl, with implicit 
trust in plighted faith, careless of all save the 
love of her chosen one, has become a bride. 
Dark storms have howled down the aisles of her 
heart — happy indeed if her shelter proved true. 
There is a bravery in walking the plank — in 



260 Happy New Year. 

leading a forlorn hope — in looking into the 
month of a cannon — bnt there is no braver 
act than for a trusting girl to cut loose from 
the hallowed port of parental protection and, 
relying on a simple " yes," launch her bark 
.toward the shore of eternity in the search for 
that happiness every heart craves — so few dis- 
cover. 

The bride has in the year just dead become 
a widow, and with breaking heart gone into a 
grave deeper and darker than the one wherein 
rests her hopes. The groom has buried the one 
chosen from all of God's millions. The father 
has laid his darling boy beneath the sod — the 
mother has prayed God to spare, for ever bo 
brief a time, the loved one who is not lost. 
The infant whose breath had hardly been given, 
marks an angelic chrysalis in the cold grave- 
yard, while the pretty playthings of the child 
whose prattling and rompings gave joy to the 
household are sacredly put out of sight, in some 



Happy New Year. 261 

secluded spot, to call forth floods of tears when 
none but grief and God are nigh. 

Those who loved have been wronged— be- 
trayed— forgotten vows have been kept or broken 
as destiny moved its wand. Homes have been 
made joyous and desolate during the reign of 
the monarch for whose death no one thinks to 
weep. Heart histories, to be read only in the 
land of the leal, have been written. We have 
locked many a secret in om* hearts— or given 
them to the winds— men and women have been 
lost and saved -hearts have become cold, 
estranged and reckless, or made to know the 
power of love and kindness since last we wished 
those we met a Hajppt New Year. 

There are pictures on memoric plates to- 
night each will do well to recall. Who of us 
have been true to our vows, our promises, our 
loves, our manhood, ourselves ? God only knows. 
The beautiful picture we began to paint one 
year a^o is marred by too many blots and 



262 Hajyp}/ New Yewr. 

punctures. There are too many stains on the 
mantle of life — too many links missing in our 
chain of good acts — too many weeds have grown 
up and gone to seed, in the plat we intended 
for flowers alone. 

As God had wished us a Happy [N'ew Year 
and thrown His mantle over the earth, covering 
from sight the dark spots — the uneven places 
— the crooked sticks, sharp-cutting stones, and 
treacherous swamps, so let us who live throw 
the mantle of forgiveness over all men and 
stand erect before God and the world, thus 
proving our title to true manhood. Let us 
forgive those who have wronged us. It is not 
worth while for us to hate when so few years 
are given us for Ixme^ before we enter upon the 
work of the future set apart for us. Let those 
who have wronged us be forgiven — let our loves 
and good intentions be strengthened, that our 
hearts may be lighter and the bank we sit 
on while waiting be beautified. Even brutes 



Sappy N&w Year. 263 

forgive and forget — surely man can do as 
much. 

Not alone to the rich and prosperous — to 
those who wrap in furs to keep the cold out — 
in selfishness to keep the good in ; who ride in 
luxurious coaches and display the labor of 
others in jewelry and fine apparel ; — not alone 
to those who sip of costly wines — who rest on 
slumber- wooing couches — who sleep in em- 
broidery — who revel in the delights wealth 
brings — who sit on well-rugged hearth by plated 
fenders, or feel the warm breath from glowing 
furnace — not alone to those who lack not for 
friends and enjoyment. 

But to all. To the widow in her weeds — the 
orphan in rags — the child of poverty whose rest 
from toil never comes — to the noble-hearted 
watcher by the couch of suifering as well as to 
the sufferer wherever that sufferer may be — to 
the lonely of heart — the wrecked voyager on the 
terrible ocean of life — to the one who hungers 



264 I^<^PPy ^^^ Year. 

for love — to the fallen and foi*saken, the betrayed 
and wronged — the poor laborer whose hand is 
hard, but whose heart is true and warm — to those 
who sit by the home fire, be it ever so scant or 
hmnble — to honest-hearted laborers and those 
who mourn for loved ones lost in sickness or 
slain in battle — to those whose hearts are sad 
and whose joys are like dews of morning — to 
the poor and lonely who are always floating by 
upon the mystic river on whose bank we sit, do 
we wish from an earnest heart, a Happy New 
Yeah. 

As the current rolls on may they land on green 
banks instead of broken points of rocks, to be cut 
and torn by the winds of adversity — amid fra- 
grant groves beautified by the flowers of kind acts 
instead of a golgotha of sunken hopes — on islands 
ever green with love and aftection — beneath 
spreading palms rather than on Arctic shores to 
shiver in the gales of adversity, borne on the 
wings of selfishness — with the living and loving 



Happy New Year, 265 

ratlier than with those who are dead to that 
which makes life happy. 

Soon will the brink be reached, the last look to 
the shore be given ; and as those who watch the 
ripple turn away with a shudder to look again 
and find us gone forever, may the momentum 
given by a current strong and deep from good 
actions and noble impulses, carry us to the calm 
depth of an open sea, and not leave us impaled 
on the points and jutting rocks of disappoint- 
ment, which, covered with victims, mark the 
dangerous shores which but line the current be- 
yond safe for the true and the leal. 

Look down the aisle. Throw open the blinds. 
Let the sunlight of true manhood in upon our 
hearts. Strive for the liberality which lifts man 
to a higher plane, and let us go forth battling 
with the army of cares with more of God and 
less of selfishness in our hearts. 

Hold the dear ones and the loved ones closer 

to the heart — open the hand of charity and benev- 
12 



266 



Hajpjpy New Year, 



olence, and wipe out the dark spots of tlie past 
year with the good born from noble impulses of 
the new year, that it may indeed be a happy and 
a prosperous one. 



► 





CHAPTER XXXVIII. 



Saturday Night. 






'^mm^ 



NOTHEE. week has been called in. 
Another seven-day net of provi- 
dences has been reeled upon the 
invisible, and its wondrous haul of 
good deeds and bad pass in review before the 
Power of powers, the Great Father of all. A 
few more Saturday nights for us — perhaps no 
more for many who will read this article — it 
may be no more for the weary, hard, and tired 
brain but for which this little summing up 
would not be made. 

It is good to rest, and we are glad to have one 



K 



268 Saturday Night, 

night of the week for review. One night in 
which to look back at the hollowness of life — 
one little season in which we can look at the 
beautiful of it ; for there is beauty in it, though 
the terrible to-morrow which promises more than 
it brings, sadly hides the perfection of days, life, 
and events. 

Since last we sat by the desk to write thus out- 
side of politics or business, there have been many 
changes. Many a heart has been widowed, and 
many a sad pillow in the final earthly home 
marks where sleep the missed ones. Do you 
know there is something very strange about 
this life and death ? We do not see why people 
so desii-e to live. From the cradle to the grave 
it is but toil, labor, sorrow, disappointment, and 
vexation. "Were it not that we look for to-mor- 
row to bring us happiness, or next week or next 
year to bring us comfort, there would be but 
dark clouds over all of us. The days, the years, 
are but the seconds and moments of God ! That 



SaturdoAf Night, 269 

of time we prize so highly is of no moment to 
Him, and yet liow we hang on the great pendu- 
him with its fifty-two figm-es thereon, each like 
this of which we write. 

Death is not dreadful. It is but the sleeping 
here, to waken there % It is but sinking to rest 
in our office, when wearied with the labors of 
the day, and waking at Iwme^ wherfe about us 
will stand in the sunshine of God's wondrous 
love the dear ones gone before to prepare the 
parlor of Eternity for your use and our resting, 
forever ! And who would fear to thus sleep- 
to lay by the pen, to shove back from the desk 
and say " Good-by, wearying labors, we part 
forever" — to recline the head on back of cushion- 
ed chair, to smile as our eyes see the loved ones 
waiting, and to know that instead of walking we 
are wafted silently and on wings of love lest we 
waken before the glad surprise ! 

"Working man and brother, we care not what 
your language, or how much you differ from us 



► 



270 Saturday Night 

in opinion, to you we talk to-night. Opinions 
are but opinions. We may be wrong, you may 
be wrong — each of us may be wrong, for none 
but God is right. You have a riglit to your 
ideas — we have a right to ours, for they are all 
born of a higher power, to be operated on by 
acts, events, and arguments. But we would add 
to your happiness, here. Another will care for 
you in the Hereafter, as He will care for all of 
us. You teach us by your daily example many 
things. We see you nobly striving, and would 
help you if such thing can be. 

We all seek happiness. Let us see how it can 
be had. You are tired. Then rest. Go home 
and be with those who are with you and of you. 
Throw your labor and dignity behind you. Open 
your heart. Talk of the beauties of the past you 
have seen, and congratulate yourselves that so 
much misery which has befallen others has es- 
caped you. Ko matter how hard your lot, some 
one has a harder one. Think if there are not 



Saturday Night. 271 

near you those you would on no account change 
places with. 

If you love, love more. If you hate, hate less. 
Life is too short to spend in hating any one. 
Why war against a mortal who is going the same 
road with us ? Why not expand the flower of 
life and happiness by learning to love, by teach- 
ing those who are near and dear the beautiful 
lesson ? Your hands may be hard, but your 
hearts need not be. Your forms may be bent 
or ugly, but do you not know that the most 
beautiful flowers often grow in the most rugged, 
unsheltered places ? The palace for care^the 
cottage for love. Not that there is no love in 
the mansion; but somehow if we are not very 
careful, business wiU crowd all there is of beauty 
out of the heart. This is why God has given 
Sabbaths and Saturday nights, that we may 
leave business in the office and have a heart- 
cleaning. 

Forgive, as you would be forgiven. Love, as 



i 



► 



272 Saturday Wight 

you would be loved. Do as you would be done 
by. Suppose you were a weary prisoner at 
home, and tliink liow welcome would be the 
coming of her you love, to be with you one 
night, if not each night, and go by the places 
of dissipation, of wickedness, where people would 
not so congregate if they did not forget. If you 
would have home happy, try to make it so. 
Light the lamp of life and keep it filled with the 
oil of love, care, affection, tenderness, and ca- 
resses, that it may not go to sleep in the dark 
when the work of Hfe is ended. Children often 
fear to go to sleep in the dark, but there is 
another sleep, and a more terrible darkness ! 
Only this, and nothing more ! 

Suppose we fall asleep in the ofiice this Satur- 
day night, and, neglecting to have trimmed our 
lamp, awaken to find but darkness and gloom, 
and uncertainty. "We may find matches, but of 
what avail if there be no oil ? We may die and 
live again, but if there be no lamps of love to 



Saturday Night. 2T3 

lighten our future, better that we lived, even in 
sorrow. 

Home can be happy if we make it so. Do not 
expect to cull all the flowers. Do not, simply to 
please yourself! We repeat— do not, simply to 
please yourself, for therein lies the shroud of 
happiness ! Give, as is given. Keep back the 
bitter words. Others may be weary and bitter. 
Words unspoken are never remembered ! 

Go home to-night. If you would be happy, 
go home. If there is no happiness there take 
some, and kindle more. Save your earnings. 
Beautify your resting-places. Keep your heart 
warm and your brain steady. Save rather than 
waste, for the days go by faster than we dream, 
and want may overtake us, as it has others who 
lost the week in the great whirlpool of Saturday 
night. — " Bkick" Pomeroy. 

THE END. 



{ 



} 



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